


i'll come back for you (back someday for you)

by fivesecrets



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Neither Ann-Kathrin or Scarlett are in this fic at all, Some Elements of Self-Destructive Behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivesecrets/pseuds/fivesecrets
Summary: Marco presses his face against the glass and stares until London becomes foggy.  Not in the way everyone says, with the thick layers of cloud hanging over the city, but just his breath staining the glass.  That and the fact his eyes are filled with tears again and Mario isn't even here to hold him.Or,The one where Mario leaves Marco for his dreams and Marco doesn't know what the hell to do.





	i'll come back for you (back someday for you)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is the first football fic I've actually completed and it's filled with all the cliches and judicious use of disorientating time-skips but I hope you enjoy it anyway!  
> This is also extremely badly paced with an extremely disjointed narrative because I'm just not a good writer lmao  
> The drunk texting nonsense is based off how badly worded my drunk texts are. They're... a sight to behold  
> Title from _Back For You_ by MAX.

_"I'm going to Munich."_

Marco presses his face against the glass and stares until London becomes foggy. Not in the way everyone says, with the thick layers of cloud hanging over the city, but just his breath staining the glass. That and the fact his eyes are filled with tears again and Mario isn't even here to hold him. He's had losses before, drubbings and last-minute winners, but this one hurts the most. They'd defied all the odds to even reach the final but what was the fucking point if they only ended up losing anyway. Losing to the one team Marco had already lost enough to. 

Behind him the party is in full swing, the yells of the Bayern players to one another about the day's earlier events ringing across the blaring music.  Marco can just about make out some of his teammates, definitely too drunk to be able to remember what’s happened tomorrow morning, aside from the obvious thing that they lost. Dortmund didn’t even play badly, they just weren’t good enough. They weren’t good enough to win, and they weren’t good enough to keep Mario.

_“I’m going to Munich.”_

Mario’s voice lingers in his head even when Marco squeezes his eyes shut, trying to blot out the ache of Mario's voice repeating on loop. It’s futile though, he knows, because nothing will be able to block out the memory of Mario’s hoarse voice and brown, brown eyes looking at anything but Marco.

_“I’m going to Munich."_

_Mario’s eyes, which have managed to stay on Marco’s with the unnatural show of determination reserved for the biggest pains, finally drop away from his face. Marco wants to laugh, wants to punch Mario's arm jokingly and tell him to stop the act and that it was a good prank. But Mario still isn’t looking at him and the air settling over the room has the uncomfortable heaviness of truth._

_Marco doesn’t know what he’s going to say until he says it,_

_“Why?”_

_His voice is shot to shit, like Mario’s words have taken his vocal chords and torn them into a thousand pieces. He can already feel his resolve crumbling and stiffens himself. He knows it won’t last for much longer, can feel the tears prickling at the side of his eyelids, but if he can just get Mario out before they flow, if he can just-_

_“They want me. I want to go there.”_

_Marco is struck dumb. Mario is leaving him, and he should be asking him more about what he’s going to do, where’s he’s going to live, what he’s excited for, not letting slip how his heart is literally cracking right at the same moment. But his inability words belie his secret and Mario slips his eyes shut, obviously trying to block out the pain of the silence._

_“Sunny, I---.”_

_“No,” Mario says, and that’s what hurts Marco most of all, “don't try and make me stay, please, just understand that this is what I want."_

_Everything Mario says cracks the ever-thinning wall of ice around Marco’s resolve to stay strong. But the idea of Mario thinking staying where Marco knows he belongs is bad is heart-breaking. The ice wall tumbles down, and with it, Marco’s tears._

_“I don't want you to go."_

_His voice has gone past a just a croak, the kind that comes when your throat is thick with tears. It’s something so harrowing and raw that Marco can see the pain flicker in Mario's eyes when he hears it, watches Mario be unable to even respond. He just stares into space while Marco stares straight at him. They sit in silence until Marco’s sobs subside into broken breaths. He knows he looks worse than ever, tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, but he can’t even bring himself to care about anything other than the fact that Mario really is leaving, and he won’t see him every day anymore, let alone wake up next to him, arms wrapped tightly around Mario’s chest. Somewhere in the background, he hears Mario whisper, "I do."_

_“We still have the international break. I’m only in Munich, I’m not a million miles away---,” Mario says helplessly, but it’s only background noise to the pieces of Marco’s heart lying in the place where his whole heart once was._

_It’s_ Munich. _Munich of all the places in the world. If it was Real, or Barcelona, or one of the Premier League clubs, Marco could maybe understand and even though Mario would be further away than he is going to be in this reality, it still wouldn’t feel like this. Like Mario has just betrayed everything that they’ve worked so hard to build over the past year._

_Marco realises his eyes have fallen to the floor and he looks up at Mario again, who is finally, finally looking back at him. Mario must see something in Marco’s face because he steps closer, takes the older man in his arms like it’s just another one of those nights that Marco thought would be forever and now are numbered, and that number is much lower than Marco ever wants to consider._

_“It hurts.” Marco whispers._

_“I know. It hurts me, too.”_

_“Then why are you going, Sunny?”_

_Mario doesn’t reply, just tightens his grip on Marco's shoulders. Marco tries to find his voice to which has seemingly deserted him again, to try and push him for an answer, only for Mario to shush his strangled attempts with a tone so privately reserved for Marco it makes his heart_ ache. _Mario doesn't answer him though. Probably because he's already answered Marco's question and it'll hurt too much to repeat himself._

_(Little does he know the actual reason is because Mario isn't sure if he really has an answer anymore.)_

“Marco!” Mats yells from behind him, pulling Marco from his thoughts and back into the floor of The Shard where the party is apparently still happening. Suddenly, Marco feels way too high up and the threat of vomit burns in the back of his throat. He mumbles something like an apology and pushes past Mats, who apparently has Kevin with him too, and runs to the bathroom. He sits on the floor next to the toilet for what feels like hours, vomiting up what little alcohol and food he had consumed over the course of the night as well as Mario’s memory and the disappointment of the loss. Behind him, the door to the cubicle swings open and Mats steps in behind him, sitting down next to him with a ragged look that perfectly reflects how Marco is feeling.

“We’ll beat them next season.” Mats says, and that’s what sets him off, starts the flood of tears that have been threatening to spill since Marco started thinking about Mario.

“I don’t want to beat them next season,” Marco sobs, “I don’t want to beat them ever again while he’s there.”

Mats looks stricken, voice laced with apology when he realises exactly who Marco is referring to. He and Mario are pretty much the worst kept secret on the team, their prolonged glances and furtive touches obvious to everyone that knows them.

“I know you’ll miss him, Marco.” Mats says, earning another choked cry from Marco and a retching sound that makes Mats brace himself for vomit. It never comes, and Marco slumps against the wall of the cubicle again, “but maybe this won’t be as bad as you think.”

Marco meets his eyes then, not even bothering to try and hide the pain written so clearly in them.

“I love him.” Marco says, his voice no longer cracked but just fucking _exhausted,_ he’s so tired with just waiting for this season to be over and then Mario will go, and he’ll be left to figure out what the hell he’s going to do without him.

Unless he’s already gone to Munich.

Maybe Mario couldn’t face him. After he told Marco he was going to Munich, Marco's only kissed him three times since, and two of them weren’t even on his lips. One on his injured shoulder, and another on the inside of his thigh when Marco sucked his cock the one time they’ve had sex since the revelation. Marco knows he’s losing Mario already, he just can’t bring himself to bridge the distance Mario is placing between them. He doesn’t see the point.

It’ll only make it hurt more when Mario does leave him for good.

☆

_They meet for the first time on the national team in 2010 for the Euro qualifiers, back when Mario is just breaking through at Dortmund and Marco is shining in Mönchengladbach, and immediately it’s clear that the two of them get on so well. When Mario says that he’s 18 and came through the ranks at Dortmund Marco is immediately regretful he isn’t three years younger so that they could’ve come through together. At one point, Mario trips and falls head-first down the stairs and Marco laughs at him until Mario stands up, sheepish, and the beauty of the blush staining his cheeks makes Marco almost choke and have to look away. Mario's smile is like sunshine, so effortlessly bright that Marco wants to bottle it up and keep it forever and he isn’t even ashamed when he nicknames him ‘Sunny.’_

_The first time he says it Mario scoffs, before that beautiful blush appears on his cheeks and god, if Marco could just make Mario blush, smile and duck his head for the rest of his life he’d die a happy man. When the qualifiers are over, and they’re about go back to their clubs, Mario hugs him for what is probably longer than necessary and no one says anything, but Marco can feel the slight burning underneath his skin where Mario's touch was, tries to ignore the fizz that follows him all the way back to Gladbach._

_The Euros are rocky, the team ending up in third and Marco plays a lot of the matches, but he always feels so much more confident when Mario is on the field with him. Even though Mario isn't on the field at that point, Marco scores a goal against Greece, his eyes going straight from the ball in the back of the net to the celebrations on the bench. Even though there's a crowd of his teammates all jumping up and screaming, Marco is instantly drawn to him, on his feet and cheering louder than anyone._

_He wants to surprise Mario when he signs for Dortmund, wants him to have a moment where he’s scrolling through social media (Mario’s addicted to his phone, it’s so annoying but also kind of endearing, Marco thinks) and he sees the announcement. But in the end it’s Marco who ends up getting surprised as he’s walking out of the meeting room at Brackel, when someone jumps on his back and plants a kiss on his cheek. Marco turns, sharp remark ready on his tongue, but his words catch when he sees Mario smiling up at him, brown eyes bright and shining against the yellow training kit._

_“Nice of you to join us.” Mario smirks._

_“Ugh, I forgot you’re here. I should go back in there and tear up the contract.” Marco tries to shoot back but he’s feeling this weird fluttering in his stomach and it’s constricting his throat, so it comes out all wrong and just makes Mario laugh at him._

_Once he’s caught his breath, Mario raises one perfect eyebrow at him and starts to walk away. Marco is sure he must be exaggerating, because he’s swaying his hips as he walks and his ass is swaying too and oh fuck, if Marco doesn’t stop looking soon he’s going to end up with a pretty obvious problem._

_Luckily (or unluckily?) at that moment Mario decides to turn back to him and makes some sort of offhand comment about how if Marco is going to be so rude to him then he won’t bother to remain in his presence, voice pitched so high Marco can only snort, much to the mock disapproval of the younger man._

_Marco starts pre-season training a week later, slotting into his old team like he's never been away, and Mario instantly attaches himself to his side, which Marco soon discovers has multiple perks. One, because Mario is Kloppo’s favourite and therefore by extension when he’s with Marco, Marco can get away with also being a bit of a dick. Two, because training is so much more fun with the kind of friendship Mario and he are already developing and three, because Mario is just so beautiful and funny and Marco loves every second they spend together._

_Marco gets increasingly nervous as the opening weekend of the Bundesliga draws near and it must show on his face because Mario barely leaves him alone anymore and always has whispered words of reassurance ready. If it were anyone else, Marco would definitely have been irritated by their constant presence, but he finds himself actively looking forward to whatever thing Mario will quietly tell him when they’re in the corner of the dressing room after practice or huddled together on the training field. When Kloppo pulls them aside and tells them they’re going to be great and that the league isn’t ready for their already brilliant attacking partnership, Mario beams at him and tells him, “I told you so.” And so what if Mats catches Marco staring with a huge smile on his face as Mario makes his way through three defenders before slotting the ball past Roman in a training drill and gives him a confused look? Mario is so beautiful, Marco doesn’t ever want to stop looking at him, calculating stares from their teammates be damned._

_They open the season versus Bremen and within eleven minutes Marco’s doubts about whether he’ll fit into Dortmund’s Bundesliga team vanish when he scores. Mario assists him, and Marco instantly turns to look for him, ignoring the other teammates that are rushing towards him to celebrate, pulling Mario in for a hug and murmuring, “that was brilliant. You’re brilliant, Sunny,” and it’s so hard to try not to grin knowingly when he sees the faint tinge of a blush on Mario’s cheeks when the group hug dissolves. Late on in the game Mario gets his own goal that proves to be the winner and Marco cannot even begin to place the pride swelling in his chest. He’s felt happy when his teammates have scored before, of course he has, but never to the dizzying extent of Mario’s goal. They keep playing and they keep scoring, developing a celebration mirrored off the basketball players in the NBA that they love to watch when they don't have a game._

_It’s only after the home loss to Schalke that Marco realises just how far gone he truly is. Mario follows him into the dressing room in stony silence, feet dragging with the clatter of the cleats across the floor. Around them, the team, all chatter from earlier in the day muted to silent anger after the loss, await the wrath of Kloppo’s imminent arrival, but Marco barely notices any of them. He can’t pull his focus from Mario, who is dejectedly pulling off his boots before burying his head in his favourite spot in the crook of Marco’s neck._

_“Hey,” Marco mumbles, “you played well, Sunny.”_

_“Not well enough.” Mario replies, however Marco can feel the warmth of his breath on his neck when he smiled at his nickname._

_Marco’s heart beats painfully in his chest. He looks down at Mario, small and tired and sad next to him, and the realisation crashes over him like a tidal wave._

_He puts his arms around the smaller man and rests his chin on the top of Mario’s head, trying to block out the butterflies threatening to take over his chest and the way his heart is speeding up, to no avail._

_He tries to block out his crush that night in the shower, but while he can forcefully shove the image of Mario sweaty and naked and beautiful out of his mind, he can’t shake it from his cock. Marco groans and turns the hot water right down to cold, bearing the torture as he waits for his dick to finally abandon hope until he’s sure he’s about to contract hypothermia and gets out of the shower with his boner very much still there._

_He climbs into bed and shuts his eyes tight, willing his cock to soften so he can sleep. He’s so exhausted, the disappointment of the loss hanging heavy on his shoulders, but every time he shifts his cock rubs against the bedsheets, creating a delicious friction that makes him moan despite himself._

_Eventually, face flushed and stomach filled with guilt, Marco takes his dick in his hand and begins to stroke, wills himself to imagine the sexiest woman he can think of. It works for a while as Marco slides his hand up and down the shaft, but just as he starts to drip pre-come and is distracted by the familiar wetness lubricating his strokes and forcing another low moan from him, the image of Mario appears in his mind again. Marco is too far gone to feel the effects of the pangs of guilt and with Mario on his mind, comes all over himself and his hand in what, he realises belatedly, is one of the quickest orgasms he’s had in years._

_He struggles to look Mario in the eye the next day when he jumps on Marco’s back and presses another friendly kiss to his cheek, a bad habit of his that Marco loves but also hates because he hates feeling Mario’s lips on his skin when it’s not in the context of what he wants so bad._

_By the time of the winter break, Dortmund are several points behind Bayern, but the team is still in pretty good spirits. They qualified for the knockout stages of the Champions League and their domestic performances have been pretty good, so Lewy decides to hire out a club and invite the whole team before they all go their separate ways for Christmas and New Year. Marco will go, as usual, to Dubai with his family, while he knows Mario is going back home to Memmingen to stay with his grandparents for the festive season._

_They’ll only be apart for two weeks but that doesn't mean Marco doesn’t find himself crowded on a nightclub dancefloor, surrounded by the yells of his teammates, some in worse states than others, with Mario gripping onto his waist. He’s adorable, and Marco loves the feeling of Mario’s bare chest pressing against him (Mario’s lost his shirt at some point during the night, Marco doesn’t know how but he expects Moritz, Kevin and Ilkay have something to do with it) but Marco still curses his luck for making his best friend be by far the most drunk person in the room, because drunk Mario is extremely clingy._

_“I love you, Marco,” Mario slurs, flopping his head down on Marco’s shoulder. It makes Marco want to scream because Mario will never know, can never know just how happy his presence makes Marco and how much it hurts when he tells him he loves him, because Mario doesn’t love him in the same way._

_“You’re drunk, Sunny. I’m taking you home.”_

_Mario whines, arms leaving Marco’s waist as he dramatically flops onto a nearby chair. Marco tries not to notice how cold he feels without Mario clutching onto him, tries not to think about the strong-but-gentle grasp that is so typically_ Mario _that it makes Marco want to cry and laugh at the same time._

 _He’s ninety nine percent sure Mario is driving him crazy. He’s one hundred percent sure he’d let Mario drive him crazy for the rest of his life, if only he’d_ be his.

_Mario’s shirt is thrust upon his hands from out of apparently nowhere, so he goes over to his best friend (who is now drunkenly reciting ‘Silent Night’ to a very amused trio of Lewy, Kuba and Lukasz) and forces him to sit upright and pulls his shirt on, buttoning it up just enough to preserve Mario's modesty because his fingers are burning whenever they brush across Mario’s chest and he needs to get that mental image out of his head._

_When sober, Mario can judge the tiniest change in Marco’s mood, the slightest hesitancy that prompts him to immediately comfort the older. However drunk Mario must lose this ability because he is currently caressing Marco’s face and mumbling about how he’s “the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and I want to wrap you in bubble wrap and keep you as a pet,” and Marco is again reminded of just how deep he really is because he feels just so ridiculously fond of him._

_Marco unceremoniously drags Mario to his feet and quickly bids the rest of their teammates goodbye before he pulls a very reluctant Mario out of the nightclub and into the street, where the snowflakes are beginning to fall and the streetlights shining mutely against the black of the sky. Mario whines at the sudden cold and Marco can’t help but laugh at him, watches as Mario bundles himself into the passenger seat of Marco’s car. Marco had a feeling this would happen, that Mario would be far too intoxicated to drive, so he offered to take him to the club; an affair that ended up taking twice as long as it should’ve because Mario had made Marco laugh so hard he almost crashed the goddamn car._

_By the time Marco has pulled out of the car park, Mario is dead to the world._

_Twenty minutes later, Marco pulls up outside of Mario’s apartment block, before deciding that Mario is far too tired to be woken. He finds the key in Mario’s jacket pocket before lifting Mario into his arms and carries him into the building. Mario stirs at the slight disturbance, mumbles something incoherent that Mario thinks (and hopes) might be his name, before burrowing himself further into Marco’s chest as he ascends the stairs._

_It’s a struggle to unlock the door to Mario’s flat with the owner blocking his view of the keyhole, but Marco eventually manages. He knows the layout like the back of his hand, immediately depositing Mario on his bed and starting to undress him. He figures that the sooner he gets it over with, the less awkward it would be and the less chance he'll have of getting caught with an embarrassing situation. He unbuttons the shirt quickly and chucks it on the floor, before unzipping Mario's jeans and, with what takes some considerable effort given Mario is too asleep to cooperate, pulls them off and chucks them into the heap. His shoes, thank god, are much easier and slide off quickly, so Marco can go to Mario's en-suite to find tablets and a cup of water for the killer hangover Mario will_ definitely _have tomorrow. He places them on the nightstand and looks down at the sleeping form of his best friend, face pressed against the pillow and hands tight against the covers. Without thinking, Marco leans down and presses a quick kiss to his forehead._

_He’s almost out the door when Marco hears him,_

_“Mar---co. Sta----y.”_

_“I can’t, Sunny.”_

_It’s as if Marco’s refusal wakes something in Mario, because his eyes are suddenly open and have Marco trapped right in their gaze. Mario looks bleary, drunk and so, so beautiful and Marco is convinced he’s never loved anyone quite so desperately at this. Mario’s a mess, and Marco wants him with such an urgency he has to fight to keep his voice under control._

_“Why?” Mario whines, head flopping back against the pillow with a silent thud._

_“I just shouldn’t, okay?” Marco’s voice comes out harsher than he intends and Mario winces, Marco instantly feeling guilty because it isn’t Mario’s fault that he’s feeling like this. He didn’t have to fall for him, he’s sure if he really tried he could’ve prevented it._

_The scariest thing is he never wanted to try and not love Mario._

_Mario gives him a mock-hurt look that makes his heart almost melt and Marco has to take a second to recompose himself because he’s sure if he tried to speak at that moment his voice would betray him and present all the love he has for Mario, put it all out there in the open and even if Mario couldn’t remember it in the morning, Marco would never be able to take it back._

_“Why not?”_

_“It’s… not a good idea.”_

_Mario makes a noise and then decides that he’s too tired to deal with Marco’s stubbornness by arguing and lays back down on his bed. But then his voice rises from the mess of the bedsheets,_

_“You can stay on the sofa if you want.”_

_Marco looks out of the window, at the snowflakes falling thick and fast onto the deserted streets outside, can see the thick blanket of snow forming on the roads. And he’s tired. The activity of the night out with the team and the long journey back from Hoffenheim have really taken it out of him, and he knows Mario’s sofa is comfortable._

_“Fine. Thanks, Mar.”_

_From somewhere in his mess, Mario mumbles a happy-sounding response._

_“Goodnight.”_

_Marco closes the door and quietly rests his head against it. Fuck. There really is no saving him now._

_He pulls off his jeans and falls onto Mario’s sofa, pulling on one of the stray blankets from one of their numerous movie nights. It’s become almost a little tradition, that after every home win they’ll go back to Mario’s apartment and watch movies. It always ends up with Mario resting his head on Marco’s lap and always ends up with Marco falling deeper in love._

_He falls asleep with thoughts of Mario’s eyes emblazoned in his mind._

_The grey streaks of dawn are just breaking through the curtains when Marco awakens with a start at the sound of horrified cries coming from Mario’s bedroom. Bleary eyed, Marco stumbles across the combined kitchen-living room and crashes through the door to where Mario is still fast asleep and crying out._

_“Hey, Sunny, shhh,” Marco shakes him gently, every cry Mario makes squeezing his heart, he’s just so worried about him. BY the time he looks back though, the cries have stopped and Mario is slowly waking. Marco is sure he’s never been this gorgeous, however he seems to think that every single time he seems him now, so that view might be skewered._

_Marco can pinpoint the exact moment Mario seems him properly, because his face floods with relief and his hands move for Marco instinctively. It’s also at this precise moment that Mario realises the current state of his hangover, eliciting an almighty groan that if Marco wasn’t so worried about him, he probably would’ve have laughed at. He passes him the tablets and the water he set out last night and Mario downs them gratefully, lying back down with another groan once he’s finished._

_Marco sits on the side of the bed and it’s at that moment he remembers he’s in nothing but a thin shirt and his boxers. He get up, goes to cover himself when Mario (who’s filter evidently hasn’t started kicking in yet) says something that makes him stop in his tracks,_

_“Don’t. It’s a nice view.”_

_Marco turns around before realising that gives Mario far too good of a view of his crotch which is extremely dangerous when Marco’s foot catches against the heap of clothes discarded last night and remembers Mario’s current state of undress. He hates himself for having the forethought to rid Mario of his clothes.  His mind struggles to catch up with all the new information, particularly that, judging by Mario's words, his best friend is basically telling him he isn't straight._

_“”I'm down for anything, let's just say.” Mario says suddenly._

_“Oh.  I guess I am too.”_

_Mario nods, duvet slipping lower down his chest and exposing the tiniest hint of nipple.  It runs through Marco like electricity and he curses his body f_ _or forcing him to count back from twenty because he feels the blood rushing in his hips that he knows is the precursor to an erection. Thinking about Mario’s cries during the night seem to distract his brain though, so he asks him about it._

_Mario smiles shyly and ducks his gaze before mumbling something along the lines of, “I lost you.”_

_Marco can’t stop himself from climbing into bed next to Mario and whispering, “you’ll never lose me.”_

_That’s when it happens. Mario’s head is on his shoulders, his gorgeous eyes looking up at Marco and Marco has never felt so happy in his life. They don’t have training, and Marco’s flight to Dubai isn’t until tomorrow night, so he doesn’t even need to go home if he doesn’t want to. And he has never wanted to do anything less than leave Mario and where he is right then._

_They gradually slip down from sitting to lying, Mario’s head still buried in the crook of Marco’s neck when suddenly Marco is aware of Mario’s hair brushing along his jawline. His eyes fall to the younger man only to find Mario’s already looking back at him. They stare at each other for a few long moments, neither of them wanting to break the deadlock by looking away, until Marco sees Mario’s eyes slide shut and watches him lean in._

_It doesn’t take Marco any effort to meet him halfway._

_It’s not anything dramatic, not like the embellished scenes in movies where the kiss takes place at dusk overlooking a sparkling ocean. Neither him or Mario have brushed their hair, the smell of the club still lingers on their skin and Mario hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, given Marco can feel the noticeable brush of stubble as he swipes his tongue against Mario’s bottom lip, smirking to himself as Mario immediately grants him permission to slide his tongue into Mario’s mouth. It’s not dramatic, but Marco wouldn’t have it any other way._

_They pull apart for barely enough time to breathe before Mario kisses Marco again, this time with an intensity of quashing burning desire rather than the relative innocence of their first kiss. Marco understands the sentiment. Kissing Mario feels like all his dreams coming true, with the surprise of someone who’s dismissed them for unattainable fantasy. Kissing Mario is intoxicating, and now Marco’s done it once, he doesn’t want to do anything else for the rest of his life._

_Mario kicks his leg up and climbs onto Marco, straining to keep kissing him. Almost naturally, Marco places his hands on Mario’s ass to steady him, allows his hands to roam over him. Mario isn’t stopping him and grinds down, causing Marco to squeeze his ass until Mario’s erection runs teasingly over his inner thigh and Marco stills._

_He knows he’s just as hard as Mario is, can feel the flame of his blood rushing south and the desperate throbs coming from his cock. His boxers don’t hide anything, and Marco knows he’s been half-hard since he realised Mario wasn’t wearing anything but his underwear either, but he doesn’t think he’s been this embarrassingly desperate in a long time._

_Mario looks up at him and smirks, face showing none of the anxiety Marco is feeling right now. He doesn’t know how Mario has gone from the hungover mess to some sort of awake, confident guy but fuck if it doesn’t turn him on. Even so, Mario has seemingly regained the power to examine the minutiae of Marco’s body language and momentarily stops, his eyes gorgeously dark and lips kissed pink, but the concern for Marco written all over his face._

_“Are you okay?”_

_“Yeah it’s just... I’ve wanted this for ages and it’s quite hard to process it’s happening.”_

_“You’ve wanted this for ages, huh?” Mario’s voice is like honey and Marco wants to jump out of his own skin from the spike of arousal that crashes all over him. His voice abandons him again and he can only nod and he can literally see Mario’s expression cloud over with an arousal that takes Marco’s breath away._

_Before he can register it, Mario’s slipping his boxers down and his dick springs free, flushed and so hard that if Marco didn’t know how turned on Mario was he’d be so embarrassed. That doesn’t stop him from blushing after he lets out a humiliatingly loud moan when Mario wraps his lips around the head of his cock and begins to suck though, and god this is going to be over so quickly._

_Mario’s mouth is warm and wet and he’s incredible at blowjobs and Marco is chastising himself for not confessing earlier so he could’ve had longer experiencing this. Mario’s tongue is lightly flicking Marco’s cock and it’s too much, Marco can’t stop himself from thrusting up into Mario’s mouth just as the younger takes Marco’s balls in his hand and fondles them gently. His orgasm washes over him out of nowhere, the muscles in his lower stomach tightening as he slumps back against the pillows until Mario’s mouth comes off his dick and up to kiss him, lips dripping with Marco’s come and his hair, mussed with sweat, falling into his eyes and Marco loses the ability to think._

_Mario smiles but he’s still looking sheepishly between Marco and his own cock which is very, very visible._

_“What do you need, Sunny?” Marco gasps, noticing how hoarse his voice sounds and he knows Mario can hear it too, by the soft smile forming on his lips. He slides his hands down to cup Mario through his underwear, smiling to himself when Mario lets out a breathy gasp and arches into his touch._

_He touches Mario through the material a few more times before removing his hand, which only elicits a moan which Marco wishes he could hear on repeat forever. He leans down and presses a kiss to Mario’s chest, then another on his belly, and another on the inside of his thigh, stopping to bite a little mark and relishes in the whine Mario lets out. He takes a moment to steady himself before brushing his fingers over the waistband of Mario’s boxers, letting his fingers touch Mario’s skin lightly as he pulls them down over his hips and suddenly Mario’s cock is there, hard and beautiful, his skin covered in the slightest sheen of sweat. He’s seen Mario naked countless times, but not like this, never before like this, and it’s better than all the forbidden fantasies he’s had when he’s been hard in the shower._

_He glances up to Mario, who’s fingers are gently caressing Marco’s hair out of his eyes and clawing at the thin shirt Marco is still wearing. Marco takes the hint and pulls it off so he is finally, blissfully naked, vaguely aware of his own cock recovering and definitely hopeful of a second round. It’s only when Marco leans up to kiss him does he realise he’s swallowed Mario’s beg for Marco to touch him which only makes him shudder with sudden arousal._

_“Say it again,” he demands, and Mario obliges, a choked off, guttural sound that makes Marco’s skin set on fire._

_He runs a hand along Mario’s hipbone before taking his cock in his hand, gentle at first but takes Mario’s squirm as incentive to hold him tighter, his hand moving in slow, teasing strokes along Mario’s dick._

_Mario, Marco realises in hindsight, barely lasts a minute but Marco can’t even bring himself to tease him given he wasn’t much better, and given Mario managed to last the whole way through sucking him off as well. Marco is stroking him and suddenly a choked cry comes from Mario and he comes all over Marco’s hand and his own stomach. Marco licks Mario’s come off his hand while keeping eye contact with him, trying not to cringe at the taste but thanking himself for it when Mario whines desperately at him. He’s shining with the post-sex glow and Marco wants to live in this moment forever as he makes his way back over to him, taking him into his arms in one swift movement._

_They make love on and off that day so many times Marco loses count._

_He almost doesn’t make it to Dubai._

_But he does, and once he’s there he can’t stop texting Mario, to the point that his mother threatens to throw his phone into the sea to get him to actually spend some time with them. Of course, the moment he’s free of her he texts Mario about it and has to stifle the laugh at the meme Mario sends in response._

_They meet up again along with the rest of the team in Marbella and Marco thinks he’ll never lose the novelty of arriving back into their shared hotel room and being greeted with a kiss and falling asleep with Mario in his arms and not on the other side of the room._

_It wouldn’t be completely true for Marco to say the return of Mario’s affection is the reason for their incredible duo on the pitch, Kloppo made it clear that the two of them had that natural chemistry beforehand anyway. But now they’re together they read each other better than they ever did before and create countless goals – the pundits rave about them being the best attacking duo in Germany and potentially Europe, and Marco wants to prove it to them with him, all the way up until it all comes crashing down on that horrible night when Mario stands in his apartment and tells him that_ they won’t have it again.

_Marco stands by him when the news breaks. He stands by him when he sees Mario’s shirt being burned in the crowd, stands by him when the fans jeer at Mario and the word ‘traitor’ ring in his ears._

_Standing by him when he’s broken his heart is the hardest thing Marco’s ever had to do. But he does it anyway, because he’d do anything for Mario, even if the younger wouldn’t do it for him._

☆

Marco opens the door to his flat and stops in the doorway immediately. There he is, sitting on Marco’s sofa, the one they’ve spent so much time watching movies and pretending to not be staring at the other when they’re not looking.

“Hi,” Mario says. Marco can’t miss the nerves in his voice and isn’t surprised when he hears them in his own as he replies. “I thought I should return my spare key.”

Mario nods to where he’s placed it on the kitchen counter and Marco wants to take it and hurl it at him. All the pain floods back to him – the two final losses to Bayern in the cup and Champions League, Dortmund losing the Bundesliga for the first time in three years and the most painful of all, his loss of Mario. But he can only stand and mumble, “okay,” watching Mario shift awkwardly.

“I don’t think I can do this. Us. Whatever we are.”

“Whatever we are?” Marco says, surprising himself with the anger in his voice and definitely surprising Mario too, given the way he flinches back, “you know full well how I felt about you, and you threw all that away for our biggest rivals! You know what they were saying about us, the best duo in Germany and all that shit, but you know I would’ve given all of that up for you!”

Marco is screaming now, ranting and raging all the worst words he knows at him and Mario just stands back and takes it. In a way, that’s even worse.

“Were we not enough for you? Was Dortmund not enough? Kloppo, the team, the fans, me?” Marco’s voice breaks on the last word and he can’t do it anymore, can’t look at Mario whose face is showing all his heartbreak. He knows his almost definitely is too, but he can't even bring himself to care. He needs Mario to _understand,_ to know just how much pain he's caused him and how terrified he is of being here without him.

“I loved every second of being with you, Marco, please believe that, I just have to do this. Being with you has been the best experience of my life but do you really think we would’ve stayed here forever, playing at Westfalen until we’re thirty-five and can barely last the whole ninety minutes? I have to see what’s out there for me or I’ll spend my life not knowing and regretting that I never found out.”

He’s right, Marco knows he is, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling how much it hurts. It doesn’t stop him from muttering,

“I would’ve stayed until I’m thirty-five if you wanted me to.”

Mario doesn’t reply but Marco can see the movement of his shadow as he nods.

“When does your flight leave?” His voice is gravelly, over-exerted from the torrent of emotions drowning him.

“I missed it.”

Marco’s head snaps up,

“You what?”

“I realised you wouldn’t be back, and I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye even though I know you’re mad at me and I’m the last person you’d wish to see. I have to give you something, and I don’t just mean your keys. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m also a professional footballer who can afford to catch a different flight. There’s one in a couple of hours and Volker is going to kill me if I don’t catch it, though. They want me in Munich tomorrow.”

Marco snorts at this despite himself, despite the fact his chest hurts and he’s struggling to breathe. Mario smiles, forlorn, and reaches down onto the coffee table where he’s placed a large bag. He steps towards Marco and hands it to him, helping him slip off the covers.

Marco tries very hard not to cry when he sees it.

It’s a framed collage of all of the most special photos the two of them have together, high quality ones taken by the media of them on the pitch, to slightly blurry selfies. Marco sees himself everywhere, on the beach in Marbella, on the pitch at Westfalen, in the club where Lewy had the party the night they kissed for the first time. But right next to him there is Mario, and oh god, he must’ve done this on purpose because in almost half of the photos Marco is looking at the camera and Mario is staring at him like he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Marco’s can’t tear his eyes away, scanning the frame until he’s memorised every inch. Mario’s hands meet his underneath it and he squeezes their hands together once, twice, conveying all the things there isn’t enough words to say.

In the centre there’s Mario’s shirt, the words M.GÖTZE and the huge number 10 written on the yellow background such a wistful sight for Marco, he knows he’ll never see that combination, the name and number the way it’s meant to be, ever again. On it, Mario’s written something:

_Dear Marco,_

_I want you to have this because I can’t bear the thought of you forgetting. I know I’m the one leaving, but I know I’ll never forget and I need you to know that, too._

_I’ll want you with me in Munich every single day. Please believe that._

_You might not be mine any more, but please know I’ll always be yours._

_All my love,_

_Sunny._

“Thank you,” Marco breathes, and they’re thin words to try and capture everything that he’s feeling right now. He knows he won’t ever be able to appreciate the effort Mario has made for him, but he can try. “I won’t ever forget either.”

Mario smiles at him then, a tearful smile that makes all of Marco’s insides knot together. He doesn’t want to think about how Mario is going to go through that door in less minutes than Marco can bear think about but now he’s got this, knows this is hurting Mario just as much as it is him, but it’s perfect. He doesn’t even feel guilty when he leans down to peck Mario on the cheek, and especially not when it ends up with him hurriedly sucking Mario off against the wall while the younger moans above him.

Mario comes then and Marco cleans him up, placing another gentle kiss to his lips.

“I should go.” Mario whispers.

Marco even manages to find the strength to say, “okay.”

“Don’t forget me.”

“I would never. Good luck next season.”

“Thanks. You too.”

They never were good with words, preferred to show affection through physical displays of emotion impossible to misinterpret. Mario kisses him again, grabs his jacket from where he’s left it on the counter and with a silent wave, lets himself out of the flat.

Marco doesn’t have the strength to not watch his car disappear down the street.

He shoves the photo frame into the spare bedroom and goes to bed, not caring that it’s 7PM and it’s barely even dark outside. He wakes up feeling worse than he ever has before, and to images of Mario arriving in Munich airport to swathes of fans playing on the news. He doesn't even bother to try and fight the tears that have been forming since he saw that goddamn photo-frame. Mario isn't here, and he isn't coming back.

☆

Marco thinks he can forget about it and he almost does, tries to stop himself from checking for Mario during training and in a way it’s easy, because he was always so instinctively aware of Mario’s presence that he never needed to check for him anyway. But his form’s all wrong and he keeps getting distracted, and everyone can see it. Not that he can bring himself to care.

Henrikh is really nice and slots into Dortmund’s system well but he’s not Mario and it hurts to see Mario’s number on a different teammates’ back. Marco also discovers he gels really well with Auba, but he's no Mario. None of the new teammates would ever replace Mario. The Bundesliga begins, and Dortmund start with a winning streak, spending five weeks on top of the table until Bayern inevitably find their form and reclaim the top spot.

He tries not to focus on them, switches the TV off whenever it starts showing the team which stole his Sunny away. It takes a while, given Mario is injured and doesn’t play for the first few games, before it happens, but that doesn’t stop his heart convulsing at the image of Mario walking on the field, decked from head to toe in red.

He looks good, and _happy_ , and despite everything he tells himself, that although they're not together anymore he loves Mario with everything he has and would sacrifice everything for his happiness, he can't help but feel disappointed at the undeniable knowledge that Mario is somewhere else and happy without him. They’ve texted but Marco can’t deny that there’s an awkwardness, a wall of ice, that’s formed between them that’s never existed before and the scariest part is that Marco isn’t sure he even wants to try and crack it down.

Maybe it’d hurt less if he had when Mario scores under the lights at the Signal-Iduna Park but he’s wearing the wrong colours.

When the ball flies past Roman Marco’s mind momentarily disconnects and he almost goes to celebrate the goal, the all-too familiar sight of Mario’s shot in the back of the net. But then he sees Thomas, Robben, the rest of them all go and crowd around him, embracing him in their joy and their excitement and the red, the red is almost too much that Marco is very close to having a breakdown and running off the pitch.

They lose, of course they do, the game was lost the moment Mario poked that shot into the goal. Marco notices Mario coming towards him and rushes to fiddle with his socks, to look like he’s doing something because he doesn’t want Mario to know that he’s been waiting for him the moment the final whistle blew and he straightens up just as he sees Mario’s boots and red, red socks stop on front of him, accepts the brief hug Mario gives him and wills his skin not to burn at the feeling of the gentle caress Mario gives his neck.

He finds him after the game because he promised Mario he’d give him his shirt after the first ‘Der Klassiker’ months ago and he knows he would’ve done it anyway even if he hadn’t promised. Mario’s outside the locker room waiting, red shirt in hand and Marco wants to cry because he’s not meant to be staring at the locker room door with such unease, not the door he’s passed through hundreds of times, laughing after winning the league, downcast after a loss; that door leads to something that’s a part of him no matter how much Mario tries to hide it with red.

He swaps his shirt, chokes back the lump rising in his throat when he sees how careful Mario is with the yellow material, and without saying anything, pulls Mario in for a hug. He feels the way they slot together like they have done a million times, feels the way Mario rests his head on his shoulder and rubs his back, each touch its own “I’m sorry,” until Marco is sure he’s forgiven him for everything he could possibly ever do.

“I should go,” Mario says and suddenly Marco is rushed back to the night in his apartment before Mario left for good, when they fell apart under the other’s hands and Marco wanted him, still wants him, with a yellow fire that burns deep in his veins and no amount of red water could ever put it out.

“Goodbye,” Marco whispers.

Mario presses the tiniest of kisses on his cheek and just like that he’s gone, and the red is gone and the only piece of it that remains is the scarlet shirt in Marco’s hands.

The loss to Bayern sets off a period of crisis in the team that starts rumours around Kloppo’s future and results in Marco ignoring Mario’s texts because if Mario was still here they’d be playing better, Marco’s sure of it, and there wouldn’t be any threats to Kloppo and Marco couldn’t bear it if he went too after he’s already lost Mario, who is getting more and more desperate from Marco’s lack of communication.

Eventually Mats forces him to text back before it’s too late.

 **Marco:** sorry sunny, things have been busy

 **Mario:** so busy you couldn’t have even spent the time to tell me?

Marco doesn’t have an answer to that, so he doesn't reply.

 **Mario:** sorry, mar. i know things must be tough over there. i hear all the rumours about kloppo

 **Marco:** yeah

 **Mario:** i hope he stays

 **Mario:** he loves you, you know that?

 **Marco:** only because of you

 **Mario:** maybe at first but when i left he told me that he’d keep an eye on you for me

 **Mario:** you could tell the board to let him stay and they would you know

 **Marco:** I doubt that

 **Mario:** i don’t.

It’s so simple and so Mario that Marco can’t help the ache of his absence right in his gut.

 **Mario:** i have to go. i love you

 **Marco:** i love you too sunny

They’re not together, except when they are, and Marco could deal with that if only Mario were with him.

The next time Marco sees him it’s international break and they collapse into their shared hotel room like they haven’t spent the months apart but that’s where the effects of their separation end. Mario is withdrawn and distant, still smiles at Marco but it’s not like he used to, like Marco was all he needed to make him happy.

They muddle along like this, winning their games and scoring goals, working together like they used to until it’s the last night and Marco’s bed feels very cold without Mario, because whatever he tells himself when Mario hugs him, lips brushing slightly against his neck, they’re not together anymore and they never will be again.

Still, Marco can’t rid himself of the concern when Mario walks into their room after the game versus the Faroe Islands and flops down on his bed (the _wrong_ bed, Marco tries not to think) face-first. Marco looks up from his phone and, gently goes over, placing a hand on the small of his back.

“Sunny? Everything okay?” He says, fully expecting the typical groan Mario makes in response, but surprised when Mario doesn’t sit up and eventually start rambling on about the full extent of his problems, “Sunny?”

Something in Marco’s tone must awaken something in Mario because he rolls over with a soft thud, blinking as he tries to adjust to the light and Marco sitting next to him, the room light catching in his blonde hair and he looks so beautiful and Mario is an idiot for leaving him.

Marco can’t tell that though, even from the pained expression on Mario’s face, forcing Marco to gently prompt him again.

“Fine,” he croaks, “I just don’t want this to end.”

Something stirs in Marco that he tries very, very hard to ignore.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Mario gestures, flinging his arms around wildly and narrowly missing slapping Marco right in the face, “being here. Having you here to speak to. I know it’s my own fault for leaving, it’s just Bayern isn’t quite everything I dreamed of and it hurts.”

Marco nods. He knows it can’t have been easy for Mario, for leaving Dortmund for the biggest team in the country, knowing how Bayern leaked the news right before Dortmund’s Champions League semi-final just to watch their world burn. He’s considered countless times that Mario’s club must have it in for him personally, probably because of all the times he's rejected their offers and openly said in the media he'll never join them, what with all the titles and cups (and Mario) that they’ve stolen from the tips of his fingers.

“You’ll get there,” he hears himself say, “you’ve already scored for them and the fans are slowly falling in love with you, plus Munich is beautiful, and--,”

“Guardiola doesn’t like me.” Mario cuts him off and Marco chokes on his own breath.

“What?”

“He’s never said it, but he always tests me to a higher standard than everyone else. Thomas could be fifteen minutes late and Guardiola will just give him two laps as punishment but if I’m late by more than thirty seconds he hangs me out to dry in front of the whole fucking team. I know none of them would ever judge me, but they only give me little pats and I know they’re just glad they’re not the scapegoat of the team but you, you would’ve never have stood for it.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” Marco agrees, and a small, selfish part of him is still happy at the thought of Mario’s transfer to their rivals not being as brilliant as he hopes it would be, but he instantly feels guilty because Mario’s happiness is more to him than club rivalries could ever be.

“I guess I just miss you, that’s all.”

Marco nods, because he understands, he does, but that doesn’t stop him climbing into bed next to Mario and telling him that Bayern was the right choice and that before he knows it he’ll shine and he falls asleep like that, with Mario in his arms, and for a fleeting second it’s like nothing has ever changed and they’re still in Marco’s flat in Dortmund.

Marco falls asleep and once he wakes up, Mario’s already out of bed. He curses himself for not savouring the feeling of Mario's back pressed against his chest because he dreads to think when the next time he'll feel it is.

The break ends, and Bayern leave before Dortmund’s bus gets there. Thomas is dramatically sweeping around, proclaiming his love for Mesut and pulling Sami into a hug so tight it leaves him gasping for air before turning and his eyes fall on Marco. He steps towards him and Marco is prepared for a final joke about the 3-0 loss at home to them, but then Thomas’ eyes turn soft and Marco feels himself being drawn into a hug, until he notices Thomas’ mouth right by his ear and hears his whispers,

“He misses you. I see it, in training, he always stares at Xherdan’s number and sighs and everyone knows who he’s thinking of. He starts talking about you until he realises what he’s doing and cuts himself off and turns the colour of our home kit,” Marco tries not to cringe at the thought of Mario wearing _red,_ “he still loves you.”

Marco can’t help but drift his eyes to where Mario is standing, talking awkwardly to Manu, watching as Mario’s eyes flicker over to him and flick away when their eyes meet. Marco can't even find the strength to be embarrassed at being caught staring.

Anyway,” Thomas says loudly, drawing all the attention to himself like a pro, “Dortmund are shit and you’re going to get relegated.”

“Never,” Marco replies, forced humour dripping from his tone that he notices Mario stiffen at, “but if we did, at least we didn’t cheat to stay up.”

Thomas flounces away, mock hurt as noises ring out around the team (some in support of Marco and some definitely against him) only to flounce back again and pull Marco into another hug. The other Bayern players take their turns hugging him, each wishing him personal success but his team failure, until Mario appears in front of him.

“See you soon,” he smiles and Marco wishes he didn’t know him so well so he couldn’t see the pain in his eyes.

“Yeah. You too.” Marco pulls him into a hug that will never be long enough because the Bayern players are calling for Mario to get on the bus and all they have time for is a quick bye before Mario gets on the bus and it’s pulling out of the training centre.

Marco tries not to stare after it. He fails.

☆

He wonders how different it might have been if only Jogi hadn’t selected him to play. How he’d be sitting next to Mario on a plane bound for Brazil and not lying on an operating table as too many doctors fuss over him.

It had been against Armenia in the final warm up game. Armenia weren’t going to the World Cup, so they’d put out a ‘weaker’ side (Marco tried not to sniff at the thought of not starting in Brazil anyway) but they hadn’t prepared for how dirty they were going to play. Marco thought of chasing down the defender, trying to dispossess him of the ball like he’d done millions of times before, only to receive studs to the leg and the news of “you’re out until October, Marco,” ringing in his ears.

He had lay on the ground and hadn’t got up. Somewhere he heard the referee stop play, sensed the crowd of people gathering around him, coiled into himself at the hard touch of the physiotherapists on his legs. He had shut his eyes tight, willed himself to wake up from whatever nightmare he’d entered and open his eyes to his hotel room knowing the match was later, but he knew he couldn’t kid himself. He knew he wouldn’t recover in time for the opening game, and everyone around him knew it too. He'd seen the look in Müller-Wohlfahrt's eyes.

The softest of touches on his hair caused his eyes to open by their own accord, saw Mario leaning over him, tried not to focus on the tiniest glisten of tears in his eyes. He knew it, too, Marco could see from the look of utter pity that made him want to scream as Mario swallowed and ran his fingers through his head one last time.

If Marco had his way, he would’ve been out of the dressing room before the team came back for half-time, but he’d barely sat into the chair before they came in one-by-one, none of them looking him in the eye. He watched them go back out for the second half, heard the muted cheers as they scored five more times and just about got out of the arena before the game ended.

He hadn’t switched his phone on since. He didn’t want to see the million messages of pity trivialised by the snapchat stories and the Instagram posts of the team in Brazil. He just wanted to scream at the world for doing this to him.

Days later, he lay on his bed in his childhood bedroom in his parents’ house and watched Germany destroy Portugal. He wasn’t wistful when he saw Thomas score a hattrick, or Mats get his goal, but when he sees Mesut linking up play with Mario, sees the way GÖTZE is emblazoned across his back, he can’t deny the feeling of ‘that should be me.’

The camera cuts to Shkodran, and Marco knows what’s coming,

“Shkodran Mustafi on the bench there, he’s had a wild ride this past week, hasn’t he?” Marco wants to strangle the commentator for his upbeat voice when he’s gloating about Marco’s heartbreak, “thought he wasn’t going until Marco Reus injured himself against Armenia on the sixth of June.”

The other commentators mumble in agreement and that’s just worse, he hears the fake sadness in their voices, the kind you feel when you try to sympathise with someone who’s misfortune has no effect on you. Marco flinches at his own thoughts of maybe Germany didn’t really need him anyway.

He turns on his phone for the first time since the injury, ignores how it tries to explode with buzzing, shoots off a quick message to Thomas, another to Mats, congratulating them on their goals before subconsciously opening his chat with Mario.

That’s when he sees the chain of texts Mario has sent him since the game.

 **Mario:** hey mar

 **Mario:** i know you’ll hate me for saying i’m sorry this happened to you but i really am

 **Mario:** it won’t be the same without you

 **Mario:** i’m not just saying that

 **Mario:** i know you don’t want to hear from me right now and according to the team you’re not reading any of their messages either

 **Mario:** but i have to tell you

 **Mario:** we’re all playing for you marco

 **Mario:** you’re just as important to this team as you’ve ever been

 **Mario:** i love you

There’s a break in their chat and Marco can see from the timings of the messages that it was the following day when Mario decided to continue texting him. He can also easily work out that Mario was very, very drunk when he sent them.

 **Mario:** marco why dod you have to injuryed

 **Mario:** i dont wan’t to goe weihout yo

 **Mario:** i love yuoi

 **Mario:** when wil you mesage saying youe injury isnt real

 **Mario:** becsuse when u do i will slap u foe scaring me lik this

 **Mario:** and wthen I will kiss u becadse youre meant to be theeww wiuth us

Marco laughs despite himself. God, he’s so fucking _fond of him_ and his messy drunken state.

 **Marco:** hey sunny. congratulations on your debut! i’m proud of you and i wish i was there but you’re doing amazingly and i love you too

Mario’s reply is instant:

 **Mario:** thank you mar. if i score just know the goals are dedicated to you

 **Marco:** *when you score

 **Mario:** don’t jinx it!!!!!!!

 **Marco:** i can’t jinx it when it’s the truth

 **Mario:** :)

 **Marco:** i love you

 **Mario:** i love you too. i was thinking about you the whole damn time

 **Marco:** <3

Somehow, knowing Mario can’t get him out of his head gives Marco the strength he needs to power through the insane number of pitying messages clogging up his phone. But even with the knowledge, it doesn’t stop the blush when Mats texts him back:

 **Mats:** thanks buddy

 **Mats:** just so you know, mario’s been checking his phone every spare moment for a message from you

 **Mats:** we all could tell you texted after the game

 **Mats:** he shone

 **Marco:** i--

 **Mats:** you love him. we know. he loves you too. we all do

 **Mats:** we’ll win for you marco

 **Marco:** you better. i’ll be watching

 **Mats:** i promise. can't let bayern have all the glory

Marco's sure he's woken up the whole street with his yells when Mario breaks free of the defenders and heads the ball past the Ghanian goalkeeper. He's also sure that if every single neighbour he had came barging to the front door and demanding he shut up he wouldn't have cared because Mario scored and he couldn't be prouder of him. He sees Jogi celebrate, sees Mario swathed in a hug by his teammates and prides himself on the almost complete absence of jealousy in the pang that hits his heart when he remembers he should be there and feeling the sun ripple over his skin.

They don't win, Ghana score two equalisers and Marco can see the frustration etched on his team's faces but it's okay because Portugal drew against the USA and they're still ahead on goal difference, but Marco knows his friends and knows they'll have expected more from themselves. Mario texts him the whole way back to their hotel, mostly complete with Marco's congratulations and one, gut-wrenching message of, ‘they were all hugging me and i kept looking for you.’

 **Marco:** get the team all in the common room later

 **Mario:** sure i'll let you know when we're there

That's how Marco ends up on a video chat with the whole of the German National Team, complete with Thomas' overdramatic wailing about how much he misses him, Mesut and Sami barely paying him any attention after the customary “we wish you were here,” and Marco has to smother his giggles because their mutual crushes are so obvious to everyone but them apparently, and Mario. Mario is smiling so brightly at him and Marco's heart hurts because he'd give anything to be there - he'd retire from football the moment he got back to Germany if it meant he could be in Brazil with them and experiencing this.

Marco watches as Erik, Andre and Matthias chuck a ping pong ball around in the background of the shot, laughs along with Mario and Thomas at the impressive string of expletives Kevin releases at them when it must apparently have hit him, watches Erik pull a puppy face that he knows Kevin will have absolutely none of and he wishes he was there just to show them his smug face when Kevin reacts exactly as he expected. While Mario is distracted by laughing at Kevin, Fips steals his phone and passes it to Basti to hold it out of reach before Mario is inevitably distracted again by whatever mischief Julian Draxler is causing, judging by the riot-like noises coming from another part of the common room.

“Come and talk to the grandparents!” Basti jokes, holding the phone out to Miro and Marco snorts when he sees him peer at it like he’s never seen a phone before,

“This is Marco,” Miro says, and Marco hears Basti, and other voices he assumes must be Fips, Lukas and Per burst out laughing.

“Yes, Miro, Mario’s called him, now speak to him!”

“Hi Opa,” Marco says and surprises even himself with how genuinely happy to see him he sounds.

“Hello, Marco, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m getting better,” Marco smiles, watches as Miro’s eyes light up slightly as he nods approvingly. Marco knows Miro is a man of few words and is not surprised or offended when he quietly returns to his book when Basti and Lukas start to sing a song about how much they miss him - which unsurprisingly summons Thomas to jump on top of them and join in. Marco’s not sure what he laughs harder at: their antics or Fips rolling his eyes at them in the background.

Lukas’ voice cracks and Marco loses it, and he’s not the only one, hears the howls of laughter break out from where the room has apparently fallen silent to listen to their song and he wishes he was there so badly, but never more than when Mario plucks his phone out of Basti’s hand and half-smiles at him and Marco doesn't even try to deny himself of the warmth that fizzes through his veins. He's still more in love with him than Mario will ever know, but he's okay with that somehow. Without words, he knows that Mario loves him too.

The memories of their fight before Mario left for Munich resurface when Marco watches Mario catch himself in the middle of a good-natured argument between Mats and Manu, complete with subtle jibes at the other's club. He remembers the screaming, and the heartbreak, and how the look in Mario's face implied that he was already over Marco and leaving him behind was nothing. Marco knows now how stupid he was to even consider that. Mario loves him and the only reason they're not together is because it would hurt them too much to be apart all the time.

(Marco tries not to think of Mesut and Sami, living in London and Madrid, who seem to survive just fine doing exactly that.)

The players leave the common room gradually, each departure narrated by Mario who’s embellishing every detail and Marco loves it, hopes Mesut and Sami can’t hear his laughter when they’re leaving and Mario whispers, “I’ll let you know if Mesut can walk tomorrow.” Fips leaves and Mario offers a mock-salute that judging by his reaction has earned him a flip off from the captain, and Thomas leaves in such a melodramatic, typically Thomas way that Marco knows exactly what he’d say if he were there and Thomas could hear him.

Eventually, Mario’s alone in the room and he smiles down at Marco.

“Who are you rooming with? I don’t want you to disturb them because of me.” Marco asks.

“Andre. I told him I’d stay behind to talk to you.”

Marco nods at this, not quite sure what to say. He stares at Mario through the phone screen, at his slight tan, his dark eyes and his beautiful smile and Marco wants to kiss him fiercely.

“You were right.” Mario says suddenly, snapping Marco out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“That I would score.”

“Of course I was. You were playing next to Thomas and Mesut. It’s harder to _not_ score when you have those two creative geniuses alongside you.”

Mario smiles at that, something almost sad coming up in his face and it’s one of those times where Marco hates himself for being able to read even the tiniest change in Mario’s body language because he senses so many emotions directed towards him he doesn’t want Mario to feel, but the look in his eyes, the pity, and it hurts because Mario’s pity aimed at him is the worst of them all.

“I’d rather you were playing alongside me though.”

“I know, Sunny. Me too.”

They fall silent, content to just look at each other and pretend like they’re not 8,768 kilometres and a whole ocean apart. Mario has a way of making silence on the phone feel like they’re lying in bed together again, comfortable, peaceful silence, trying not to disturb the other from sleep.

“Marco.” Mario mumbles, and Marco knows what’s coming, silently begs him to keep from saying it. But Marco knows Mario, knows he has an inability to keep quiet when he has something he wants, needs to say, and resigns himself to listen when Mario finally brings up the conversation he’s been dreading. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Marco replies.

“Marco,” Mario says again, “please.”

“It hurts.”

“Your ankle?”

“That too.”

Mario knows what Marco is trying to say, the way his face sobers making him look so _young_ again, the way he did the day they first met him, before they knew how cruel the world could be, and Marco’s stomach flips over the exact same way it did the first time.

“How does it feel?”

“Like I’m missing out on the best experience of my life.”

“It should be the best experience of mine but it isn’t when you’re not here.”

“You should enjoy it, Sunny, you don’t know if you’ll ever get this again.” Marco says, tries not to notice the way Mario’s eyes drop away from the camera.

“It’s not the same without you.”

Marco doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t want to start crying again and have to watch Mario’s face contort in panic but he’s relieved when Mario’s gaze snaps away to the door of the common room.

“Hey, Mario,” Marco hears someone who sounds suspiciously like Fips say, “you should go to bed now. We fly early tomorrow.”

And that’s right, Marco doesn’t need to sleep early because he isn’t flying anywhere tomorrow. Not like he should be, like he would be if it wasn’t for that stupid fucking defender and his shitty ankle that injures itself at a touch. He prays to god his bitterness doesn’t show on his face when Mario’s eyes flit back to him, brown and dark and gorgeous, his apologetic tone telling him that he has to go now.

“Wait!” Fips says from off screen, and Mario turns the camera towards him, “Marco, hi.”

“Hi Fips.” Marco is suddenly _exhausted_ and he hopes Fips won’t keep him long because it’s almost morning and he’s barely slept a wink.

“I just want you to know that we’re not forgetting what you’ve done for us,” Fips’ voice carries all the captain’s authority his height steals from him, “and we hope you don’t too. We miss you,” he adds, like every other member of the team Marco has spoken to and he’s sure this must be some sort of mantra now because they seem to believe he’ll die if he doesn’t know they miss him.

Fips leaves without another word and the camera pans back to Mario.

“You heard him,” the younger sighs, “Goodnight--- wait, isn’t it like 4 AM there?”

“5, but yeah.”

“Have you slept?”

“Barely.”

“Fucking hell Marco, you’re supposed to be recovering.”

“I’d rather speak to you.” He replies coolly.

Marco knows he’s flustered him because Mario goes scarlet and stutters to find a response. When he fails, he just shrugs and Marco isn’t even ashamed by the giggle he lets out.

“Fuck you.”

“You would.”

Mario flips him off before exaggeratedly checking for Fips’ presence. Marco laughs again, louder now, he’s sure he’s woken up his entire family again over the course of this call but he can’t even bring himself to care.

“I love you, Marc.”

“You too, Sunny. Night.”

“I’ll call soon. Goodnight.”

Marco’s screen fades to black and for the first time since the injury, he falls asleep with the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

☆

Marco watches every game but it’s hard for him, especially as he watches Mario fall out of the starting line-up right in front of his eyes. He suffers with the team throughout the extra time against Algeria, heart and hands shaking when Djabou pulls one back in the dying minutes, breathes a sigh of relief when the referee ends his torture with the final whistle. He watches them cling on against France, cheers when Mats scores a header within twelve minutes and manages to keep the French out for the entire rest of the game. Smiles when Jogi subs Mario on, watches as his best friend plays with his signature flair.

He feels like a fan again, like when he was young, and the team were superstars and he’d dare to dream that one day he’d be one of them but that just makes it hurt more because these are his _friends_ and not his childhood heroes.

So he switches the television on and tries not to feel the drop in his heart when he sees the starting line-up against Brazil, doesn’t see Mario’s name there. That doesn’t stop him from jumping up (as best he can) alongside his family when Toni swings the corner in and Thomas meets it and places the ball past Romero in the eleventh minute. That doesn’t stop him from feeling the pure joy when Miro breaks the record, when Toni scores two in as many minutes, when Mesut assists Sami for the fifth and Marco can see everything that he and Mario have joked for years about when the two of them find each other first to celebrate.

The camera cuts to the subs bench and Marco can’t stop the smile that breaks out on his face when he sees Mario leap to his feet in joy, ignores the knowing looks his sisters are shooting at him.

In the second half Andre scores two more, the second an absolute beauty that everyone is sure is flying miles over the crossbar milliseconds before it settles in the back of the net. The Brazilians get a consolation and Marco laughs at how furious Manu looks, remarks drily about how they could score ten and if they concede one Manu will still eviscerate them personally, earning him a slight scolding from his mother.

Then it hits him.

Germany, the team he was supposed to be with if it wasn’t for the fucking injury in the warm up game, are going to play in a World Cup Final. Something that could possibly be a once-in-a-lifetime moment, and Marco is going to _miss it._

He excuses himself from the post-game chatter, brushes off the concerned comments from his mother, feigning tiredness, and heads upstairs.

He stares at the ceiling for so long his eyes close of their own accord, ignoring the texts that won't stop buzzing into his phone.

☆

The country feels like a carnival for the entire rest of the week, the whole country wishing Sunday to just hurry up and get here, the game between The Netherlands and Brazil seen as a way to pass the time to get the next day to arrive.

Marco’s sure he must be the last person in the whole country to wake up on the day of the final.

His family are going to watch it over at his grandparents’ house with the whole of his extended family, but his mother (to her everlasting credit) doesn’t force him when Marco refuses. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want everyone’s sympathy that he is not in Brazil and preparing for the biggest moment of his life right now.

He looks down at his phone when they all leave, pushes back the tears when his mum kisses him goodbye, tries not to think about the sadness in her eyes and how she should be feeling like the proudest mother in the world because her son is about to play in the World Cup Final but she’s not. Because he isn’t. He tries not to think about Jürgen and Astrid a couple of streets away who _are,_ tries not to think about Felix and Fabian about to watch their brother when Mel and Yvvone don't get to. He does anyway.

He opens his text chat with Mario, guilt surging through him at the thirteen unanswered texts Mario has sent him since the semi-final, tries not to think about the way his messages have petered out and texts him.

 **Marco:** good luck today sunny

He goes into the kitchen and sees the six pack of beer his dad has left for him (he makes a mental note to thank him later) and pulls it slowly into the living room, where on the TV all they’re talking about is how the team can outwit Argentina, how they can stop Messi. The sun shines onto Marco’s bare chest and he wonders if he should get his shirt from the friendlies out of his suitcase and wear it for the match, before deciding to do it because for starters, fuck sunburn.

But his shirt isn’t in his suitcase, even though Marco definitely remembers chucking it at Mario to place in there for him.

He had it delivered back to him after he went straight home from the hospital, and he’s sure Mario would’ve told him if he’d found something belonging to him in their room before he left.

He finds another national shirt and pulls it on, sends a selfie wearing it to the national group chat, responds in as kind a tone as he knows how to all of the messages from his teammates flooding in, half-smiles at the video Thomas sends of them all yelling in the dressing room, tries not to focus on Mario's beautiful bare chest. But then a notification pops up that isn’t on the chat, and the jealousy that's resurfaced in Marco’s stomach churns and turns to worry.

 **Mario:** thanks

 **Mario:** i can see right through your messages on the chat btw

 **Mario:** how are you really feeling?

 **Marco:** honestly?

 **Mario:** honestly. even if it's dickheadish

 **Marco:** i want you to win but i don’t want you to win without me

 **Mario:** i get that

 **Marco:** i just hope if you do win that it’s a special moment, the winning goal and not some boring cross

 **Mario:** me too

 **Mario:** i gotta go soon

 **Mario:** i love you

 **Marco:** i love you too

 **Marco:** wait

 **Marco:** why do you still say that when we’re broken up

 **Mario:** because i do

 **Mario:** munich will never change the fact that i love you marco

 **Mario:** even if it made us break up

 **Mario:** i really have to go

 **Marco:** good luck sunny

 **Mario:** i’ll try and make you proud of me

 **Marco:** you’ve already done that a million times over

 **Mario:** ♡

Marco sends off the appropriate condolences to Sami when the news breaks he’s injured himself in the warm up, watches Mesut try to keep his face void of emotion when Christoph takes Sami’s place in the line to enter the pitch. He sings along to the national anthem, snorting as the camera passes Miro and picks up his awful singing.

The match begins, end to end stuff and Marco can hear the singing ringing around from seemingly all over Dortmund. He watches as Christoph collides with Garay and worries for him as he runs around, not looking the same, almost relieved when the board comes up and Andre races on to take his place.

Behind him, he sees Mario on the bench.

Personally, Marco tries to ignore his internal conflict of who he wants to win with an envy that has returned with a force the further the team got through the tournament, but his heart tells him what he really feels when it squeezes painfully in his chest as Higuain slots the ball past Manu, running off to celebrate for what feels like a lifetime until Marco hears the referee blowing wildly and sees the offside flag from the far side of the pitch. He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’s been holding. He curses when Benni’s header hits the crossbar and the whistle blows to signal the end of the half.

He knows his team will not have a moment wasted by Jogi, but that doesn’t stop him from firing off a text to Andre congratulating him on playing in the final, texts the group chat to pass on his wishes to Christoph.

When the teams come back out, Marco feels something. A sense of anticipation and he knows. Just somehow, he knows they’re going to win.

Messi misses his early chance and Marco lets out another sigh of relief, watches as the half plays out with no other particular chances. Until the substitution board comes up and Marco hears the commentators mutter in disappointment because Miro is coming off, and it’s the last time they’ll ever see him play for Germany, but Marco _sits the fuck up_ because the number, illuminated bright green against the darkening night sky, is nineteen and he knows better than anyone exactly who that is.

Mario looks beautiful, tanned and glowing, and Marco wishes he was there more than he has at any other point in the tournament.

He can’t take his eyes off him through the rest of the game. Watches as the clock ticks down and the ninety minutes are up. Feels his stomach clench nervously. Chokes on air too thin of oxygen, like the entire country is holding its breath.

He watches as Mats fucks up and thanks God nothing comes of it, because he’d rather die than watch Mats be humiliated for the rest of his life for losing his country the final. His eyes widen when Andre gets the ball on the left wing and breaks past two defenders. His heart pounds when he sees who’s waiting, running forward into the box. He sits forward, sees the cross, the chest, the left foot, and the ripple of the ball in the back of the net.

Marco jumps up so quickly he’s sure he’s caused further damage to his ankle, and for those fleeting moments, couldn’t give less of a shit, because Mario has scored what could be the winning goal of the entire fucking World Cup and when he looks up at the sky, Marco knows. It was for him and he’s crying now, watches as the team crowds around Mario like they’re trying to protect him, sees Merkel up and clapping, Jogi looking strangely calm as his assistants jump around him. He sees Sami, Christoph, all the substitutes on the bench and knows that if only he were there in the Maracana at that moment, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from kissing Mario, breakup be damned.

Messi skies his free kick.

The whistle blows.

They did it. _Mario_ did it, and he’s the most loved person in Germany again and Marco could not be more grateful because the abuse he’s suffered has been unparalleled and it’s killed Marco every time.

That’s when he sees Mario pass Jogi something that looks like a white shirt.

Watches Jogi pass it back on the stage while Philipp collects the trophy, and sees Mario raise it. He chokes on his beer when his eyes, glassy with tears, focus on what's written on the back.

**REUS 21.**

It’s the shirt he’s been missing, the one from the game versus Armenia.

He suddenly can’t watch anymore, and the television goes black.

It’s three hours before he gets a reply from Mario. Outside, Dortmund is still celebrating, Marco can hear the drunken singing from the pub down the road. It hurts him and also makes him prouder than ever that Mario was the one to bring their people this joy.

 **Mario:** I had to take it. You’re a member of our team and the world needs to know it. It’s crazy here and all anyone wants is a picture of me but I just wish all of them had you in the background looking at me like you always used to.

 **Marco:** you know i would be

**Marco:**

**Marco:** it’s my new lockscreen

 **Marco:** i’m so proud of you and that doesn’t even begin to explain all the things i’m feeling

 **Marco:** i wish we were still together

 **Mario:** me too but you know we can’t be

 **Marco:** yeah i know

 **Marco:** i also take back everything i said about the boring cross

 **Marco:** it was one of the best moments of my damn life

 **Mario:** mine too. it just wasn't the same without you

 **Marco:** when do you come home?

 **Mario:** not until the 27th. i’m going to dubai with my family

 **Marco:** of course. have fun

 **Mario:** thank you

 **Mario:** god i wish you were here

 **Marco:** me too. i’m going to bed

 **Marco:** don’t get too drunk

 **Mario:** goodnight mar

 **Mario:** and i’ll try

 **Mario:** i love you

 **Marco:** goodnight sunny

 **Marco:** love you too

He tries to tell himself he's not envious. But he is, he so is, and he doesn't know how he's going to be able to lie to Mario about it when they finally see each other again.

☆

“Marco!” He hears Auba call when he walks into the locker room at the training ground for the first time since his injury. It’s October, and the rain is drizzling outside, and Marco can’t wait to be out there. The team gather around him, Mats giving him a soft smile as Auba, ever hyperactive, jumps towards him but decides to stop before actually piling himself on top of him, an awkward movement that makes his limbs look weird and Marco has to laugh.

He smiles at the team, greets the summer signings he’s only seen a handful of times since they’ve joined before he's interrupted by Kloppo bundling in, yelling at the team about something that Marco doesn't really listen to but cuts himself off when the team disperses, and Marco is left standing in the middle of the dressing room.

“Reus, you may be just returning to training but that’s no excuse to be late! Get dressed!” He bellows, but Marco sees him wink and knows he’s not really mad.

Auba attaches himself to Marco’s hip for the rest of training that day. With Lewy having gone to Bayern (Marco grimaces at the thought), Marco is without a training partner, and is more than happy to accept Auba. The two communicate in a bizarre, sometimes unintelligible mix of German and English but Auba’s smile is so genuine Marco knows he really is overjoyed to have him back.

Kloppo looks weary and despite Marco’s happiness at being back on the pitch, Dortmund really hasn’t been doing well. They've been great in the Champions League so far, but they’ve lost three of the last four league games and scraped a comeback draw in the other one against Stuttgart. The next one is against Köln but before that most of their players are heading off to the international break, leaving Marco to train alone surrounded by grim-looking coaching staff, blindingly yellow walls, and the underlying worry in Kloppo’s face.

“Hey,” Auba says, dragging back to reality, “my wife and son are away so I thought about ordering something in and watching all the ‘Batman’ films after training today, and I was wondering if you’d want to join me?”

“Sure,” Marco replies, and is surprised to find that he’s actually looking forward to it, “I’ll just drop my stuff off at my house and then drive over to yours.”

“Awesome,” Auba stops talking to flip Mats off, the captain having flicked his ear when he was walking by, “what do you want to eat? I was thinking pizza, but if you want something else, I can--,”

“Pizza would be great.” Marco smiles, and rolls his eyes as Kloppo yells at them for chatting from the other end of the training field.

Later, Marco pulls up at Auba’s house and the door opens before he’s even knocked, Auba welcoming him in and leading him into the huge living room where the original _Batman_ film is paused at the beginning.

“I know this will take us hours but there’s only one way to marathon a film series and that’s in order,” Auba declares and Marco drops down next to him on the sofa, taking the pizza box and bottle of beer Auba hands him with a nod of thanks as he presses play on the film.

Halfway into _Batman Returns,_ Auba turns to him.

“How’s Mario?”

Marco splutters on his beer. He’s already had three, and the alcohol is starting to affect his head, and he switches on his phone to check the time and sees Mario there, bright and shining with Marco’s jersey in his hand, winners’ medal gleaming around his neck. Marco stares at the photo until his vision fogs up, his brain cloudy with everything that’s gone on in the past six months and the alcohol is making it work. He tears his eyes away from Mario’s face and there is Auba, the same concern in his eyes that Marco saw in Kloppo’s face during training earlier and Marco wonders if he’ll ever be able to play without people constantly concerned about his health, if he’ll ever be able to achieve the success he’s put his whole life towards achieving.

He somehow manages to choke out a, “he’s fine. Probably. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“He’s not had the time to speak to me recently.”

“Too busy being the most famous person in Germany," Auba remarks and the nonchalance in his voice shocks Marco.

“Something like that.” Marco doesn’t even try to hide how bitter he sounds by comparison. He knows Auba wouldn’t judge him, would just listen to what he has to say and not offer any opinion if Marco doesn’t want to hear it, is free to just let him rant. Mario texted him once he landed back in Germany after his holiday in Dubai, and they sat next each other at some bullshit dinner the DFB invited them to. But Mario was off with him all night, and Marco was too drained to call him out on it, and they’ve barely sent each other any more than stiffly-worded messages since. Mario seems to be fitting better into Bayern’s squad these days, his friendship with David Alaba well documented by both social media and the pundits. They even share a fucking celebration.

“How do you feel about that?”

“I,” miss him, “I’m okay. He’s busy and I was recovering. We’ll see each other soon.”

Auba doesn’t push him any further but one look at his face tells Marco that he doesn’t believe one bit of what he’s saying, nor should he. Marco fights hard to squash the swelling of pain in his heart by downing the rest of his beer bottle and insisting Auba takes a selfie with him, climbing so close he’s practically on his lap. He doesn’t post it, but Auba does, and Marco wants it spread everywhere because he wants Mario to see it and feel a fraction of the jealousy Marco does when he sees him with David.

They carry on through the series and Marco gets drunker and drunker until he has no choice but to stay in Auba’s guest bedroom, although from the complete lack of surprise Auba shows it's like he planned for this from the beginning. His friend helps him upstairs and his laugh is loud, so loud, Marco thinks for a moment he’s back with Mario but then Auba doesn’t make any attempt to climb in next to him and Marco’s reminded of how Mario would beg him to stay.

“Auba,” he mumbles, trying to shake the thoughts of Mario from his mind, “do you think we should do a Batman and Robin joint goal celebration?”

Auba laughs and shuts the door to Marco’s bedroom behind him.

His Dortmund teammates arrive back from all over the continent after the international break in high spirits that are doused as easily as they are raised when things go from bad to worse against Köln, Dortmund are slipping down the table, closer and closer to the relegation zone and Marco worries if he’ll even be able to find the motivation for the fight to stay up. This shouldn’t be happening to them, the complete capitulation that makes Kloppo’s face permanently pale and the tempers of the team permanently fragile. In the week leading up to the journey to Munich, Marco is liable to slap whoever makes the next comment about Bayern.

Marco spots the lights of the Allianz Arena before any of his teammates, the red glow vivid and stark against the overcast Munich sky. His eyes stay on it as it draws closer, as the train slows to a stop and the team pile onto the waiting bus. The red of the arena glitters in Auba’s eyes when Marco sits down next to him, silently accepting the headphone Auba offers him and tries to calm down his erratic heartbeat.

The moment he exits the bus he’s mobbed by the media and is incredibly grateful when Mats and Ilkay surround him because he really can’t be fucked to deal with the fallout of this game for any longer than he absolutely has to, and before the game definitely falls into that category. They warm up and Marco can see in Kloppo’s eyes that he has faith in them, knows his coach believes they’ll show up and put up a fight in the biggest game of the season. Marco’s eyes drift across to the other half of the pitch, instantly falling on Mario who is chatting with Alaba about something and Marco has to turn his head away sharply to avoid the pang of jealousy that cuts straight through him. He leans into the arm Auba places around his shoulders at the end of warm up, walks in front of the Bayern players as he tries to tune out the yells from the fans.

(He’s unaware that Mario is right behind him, his eyes dropping to the floor when he sees Aubameyang’s arm slung over Marco’s shoulders and Marco leaning into him like he belongs there.)

They put up a fight, looking more together than they have in the preceding games and they actually start to believe when Marco heads in the opener, smiling when he stuns the Bayern fans into silence and sees Mats rile up their fans who are screaming from the other end of the arena. Auba finds him in the middle of the group hug then, squeezes his shoulder blades tightly as the team break apart to continue with the game, but he can’t shake the feeling of someone looking at them intently.

But it still all falls apart in the second half, a pretty explicit metaphor for how shit Marco’s life is going at the moment, and the expression set on Kloppo’s face when he comes onto the pitch for the handshakes is grim and suddenly Marco is hit with a fear that he is going to be sacked. Lewy comes up to him then, tries to console him, but Marco can’t see past the red and blue stripes of his shirt and the white writing of his name and number on his back and shrugs away his words. He leaves the pitch with Erik and Sven, smiles slightly despite himself when he sees Auba waiting for him in the depths of the tunnel and accepts the hug wordlessly.

They change, and Marco doesn’t even need to ask Kloppo to hold the bus for him, just looks at his coach and acknowledges the nod he receives in response, before crossing through the media pit to the home dressing room.

He knocks, suddenly feeling weirdly shy and scared, waits until Jerome opens the door and doesn’t even resist the bone-crushing hug the defender pulls him into. He’s dragged into the dressing room then, waves at Fips who is deep in conversation with Xabi, allows himself to be manhandled into several more hugs from his national teammates, complete with crowing from Thomas that he should hate but even elicits the smallest of giggles from him.

Jerome leaves his side then, moves ever-so-slightly out of the way and _there he is,_ obviously deep in conversation with Alaba, because he never seems to not be whenever Marco sees him these days, but he approaches him anyway and taps him gently on the shoulder.

He is not prepared for the expression of fury that crosses over Mario’s face when he turns around. Or even worse, the wall of ice that builds up behind his eyes immediately afterwards.

“Sun--,” he begins,

“Save it.” Mario’s tone is so foreign, so angry, the kind of tone Marco’s only ever heard directed at the media after a particularly stupid question. After having Mario sleepy, and drunk, and completely in love with him, Marco never imagined that it would fall apart so badly that he would hear that voice aimed at him.

He tries to recount the past months, tries to pinpoint an event that would explain Mario’s anger and comes up with nothing. From the way Alaba is looking at him from over Mario’s shoulder, he does know. Marco wants to slap him.

“What have I done?” He asks, because he can’t stop himself, but immediately regrets it when Mario’s expression darkens even further. Marco didn’t even know that was possible, but apparently it was, because Mario looks like he wants to kill him, and Marco doesn’t even know why.

He never gets an answer. Mario turns around and continues his conversation with Alaba like Marco was never there, so Marco runs. Runs out of the dressing room, away from Mario and his fury, away from Alaba and his knowing smirk, and away from Thomas’ yells for them all to go out and get drunk.

He’s the first one back on the bus. Most of the others, particularly his national teammates, stop and chat with the Bayern players but Marco walks straight past the line of them in their obnoxious red tracksuits and sits right at the back of the bus.

That’s when he notices Auba talking to Mario.

Mario’s fists are clenched and Auba’s shoulders are tense, and Marco knows Kloppo needs to get Auba out of there because Mario is a ticking time bomb and he’s going to explode into a red ball of anguish and probably punch Auba and Marco does not want to have to be caught in the aftermath of that on top of everything else. But Kloppo is deep in conversation with one of the Bayern assistant coaches, not paying attention to the altercation occurring just ten metres away.

None of the others know Mario and Auba as well as Marco does. Maybe that’s why his feet stand up and run back off the bus of their own accord, grabbing Auba’s hand and pulling him back onto the vehicle before any of his friends have the chance to acknowledge his presence.

He regrets turning to look back at Mario the moment he does it. He expects to see the same fury from earlier but it’s gone, melted away, and Marco really has to get himself out of there because Mario’s eyes are glistening; his cheek is shaking in the way that Marco knows is the precursor to tears.

“What the fuck was that?” Auba asks him once Marco sits down next to him, feeling like he’s being thrashed by a never-ending onslaught of tidal waves.

It’s just then Marco realises he is really, really starved of oxygen.

His throat closes up and his vision swims and Auba’s voice is fading in his ears. He takes one, straggling gasp of breath and tries to cling on, but the waves are washing over his eyes and he feels like he’s drowning and he can’t hang on anymore.

His body slumps against Auba’s chest.

(Outside, screams emerge for a doctor when Shinji realises what’s happened. The entire Dortmund team get onto their bus and it’s leaving and Mario hears Thomas say that Roman shouted that Marco had fainted and Mario wants to scream, but he also wants to chase down the bus and get to him. Instead, he stays rooted to the spot.)

Marco’s dramatics don’t last and he’s fine by the time the team’s train pulls up in Dortmund, although the worried glances Auba and Kloppo keep throwing at him tell him they obviously think otherwise.  His actions are robotic, emotionless as he picks his stuff up from the compartment and exits the train robotically, barely stopping to mutter goodbye to his teammates before getting into Auba’s car.  He’s just lost his licence and the whole fucking country knows about it, so it wouldn’t do for him to be captured driving and having his face spread across the cover of Bild for the umpteenth time this year.

Auba climbs in next to him and chucks his bag into the backseat before driving off.  They’re well on their way to Marco’s house before he speaks up.

“What was all that about?” His voice is so much softer than it was earlier, treating Marco like he’s fragile and one wrong move could cause him to break.  Everyone treats Marco that way these days and he’s sick of it, wants to be treated like normal and not like a fucking china doll that has _handle with care_ plastered all over its packaging.

“What was all what about?” Marco replies dumbly.

“The whole thing with Götze.”

Marco shrugs and he knows Auba won’t drop it, he can see the expectance in his friend’s eyes.  Marco stares back at him and suddenly Auba isn’t there anymore and it’s Mario’s dark eyes instead, the walls building in them as he spits, “save it,” at Marco.  Mario’s eyes that filled with tears when Marco pushed Auba onto the bus and followed him without so much as a word to him.  Mario’s eyes that are probably glazed over with alcohol from the post-victory celebrations Thomas was talking about as he spends the evening wrapped in David Alaba’s arms. 

Auba coughs then and reality floods back in, causing Marco to jolt.

“You looked like you were about to punch him.”

“You’re right, I was.” Auba says it like it’s nothing, like he’s convinced Mario deserves it and the mere thought of Mario hating his friends just as much as he seemingly hates Marco is enough for Marco to snap.

“I had to get you out of there before you punched him because if you did he would’ve hated you and I can’t deal with that on top of everything, he already hates me and the last thing I would’ve needed is having to watch fucking David Alaba coddle him after you broke his nose!”

“He deserved it though.  I saw your face when you came back into the locker room.  You were on the verge of tears and it was obvious who caused it.  The little prick needed to know what he’d done.”

“He hasn’t done anything!  It’s all my fault that we’re like this.” Marco is _tired_ of having to defend Mario when he’s evidently not speaking to him anymore, but he has to because he can’t have Auba storming back to Munich to punch him like his teammate looks on the verge of doing.

“How? What have you done?” Auba asks and Marco’s words stick in his throat and he has to drop his gaze because it’s true – Marco doesn’t know what he’s done and judging by the look on his face, Auba knows as such.  “Marco?”

“I don’t know, okay?” He snaps, “just drop it.”

Something in his voice must tell Auba how close his is to absolutely losing it because his friend shuts up and turns his eyes back to the dark road.  He only speaks again when they arrive at Marco’s house and Marco moves to exit the car, mumbling his thanks.

“I’ll text you tomorrow.”

Marco nods and grabs his keys from where they’re stowed, unlocking his door and going inside without so much as a backwards glance.  He barely even takes the time to shower, standing under the hot water for no more than about three minutes before he collapses into bed.  He falls asleep almost instantly.

He wakes up to a killer migraine and his phone vibrating next to his head.  He burrows down under the covers with a groan, but his head is throbbing and whoever it is wants his attention at this time in the morning is apparently fucking persistent because his phone won’t shut the fuck up.

He grabs his phone from his nightstand and curses at the surge of pain that runs through his head when he switches it on, turning the brightness all the way down and taking in the lockscreen he still hasn’t changed.

There’s seven messages, four from Auba, one from Mats and two from Thomas.  Marco tries not to feel disappointed at the fact he hasn't heard from Mario, until the events from yesterday resurface and he remembers that he'll probably almost never hear from Mario again. Before he opens the messages he has received though, he changes his phone background to a photo of the Yellow Wall that won’t give him a headache after a hangover, and taps over to his messaging app.

 **Auba:** Hey bro

 **Auba:** Just wanted to check everything’s okay

 **Auba:** You were really down last night

 **Auba:** I’ll drop by later to take you to training

Marco shuts his eyes and wills the pounding in his head to subside.  It doesn’t, and he types out his reply to Auba almost unconsciously.

 **Marco:** i feel like shit and have a pounding headache so i think i’m gonna skip today

He messages Kloppo who isn’t best pleased but understands, warning him to recover quickly because they can’t afford to be without him next weekend.  Mats' text is just a meme that Marco responds with a couple of laughing emojis to, not even bothering to try and understand whatever complex joke he's been sent.  Thomas' first message is so exaggerated it would induce a headache if Marco didn't already have one, but responds in as nice a tone he can as he knows how.

 **Thomas:** hey marco rolls reus!!!!!!! i'm sorry about the match yesterday but i hope ur okay!!!!!! i have faith in u and dortmund that u'll get back to where you were before!!!! 

 **Thomas:** seriously tho don't worry, you'll be fine.  klopp's a good coach and you've got a talented team

 **Marco:** Thanks Thomas

His phone buzzes again and it’s just an acknowledgement from Auba that Marco doesn’t bother replying to.  He shuts it off and stumbles over to the bathroom, taking a couple of the first painkiller tablets he sees and downs them before falling back into bed.  His phone buzzes _again_ but Marco ignores it, decides whoever it is can wait.

He wakes later feeling slightly better, but his head is still throbbing dully but the tightness in his throat seems to have gone.  He automatically reaches for his phone to check the time, trying to ignore the fact he’s slept on one side of the bed, _his side,_ and left the side that Mario used to sleep in deserted.

He’s momentarily thrown off by the picture of the Signal-Iduna and not of Mario, but once he’s sees who the message is from, all thoughts of that vanish and are replaced by a terror so alien to Marco when it comes to its sender.

Mario’s proved his earlier thoughts wrong and messaged him.

 **Mario:** i’m sorry about yesterday

 **Mario:** it was just an emotional day

 **Mario:** der klassikers always are now

He starts to type but Mario’s messages seem so simple, and thereby so dismissive of all the turmoil he’s put Marco through over the past twenty-four hours that Marco is suddenly filled with a strange rage.  Backspacing, he throws his phone back down on the bedside table and instead settles for staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to think of anything other than all the potential reactions Mario could have when he notices the ‘read’ note on his phone.  If he even cares, that is.

(In Munich, Mario can’t stop the gasp when he sees the note on the bottom of his texts turn to ‘read,’ anticipates the message when he sees the three little dots appear.  But then the three dots disappear, and no message ever comes.  He can't stop himself from messaging Mats about it, can't avoid the feeling of panic when the simple reply comes through:  _he's sick._ )

It goes from bad to worse.  Marco does manage to recover from whatever freak illness he'd caught, and Dortmund do manage to beat Gladbach; but it’s only because Christoph puts it into his own net and their defence is just about able to cling onto the clean sheet.  It’s unconvincing and does nothing to lift the mood of either the fans or the players. They climb out of the relegation zone just to plummet straight back into it when they draw with Padeborn, and right down to the very bottom of the table when they lose to Frankfurt the week after.  Everything is going wrong, Kloppo is making them train for half as long again until he realises that method is even more detrimental to the team.  They pull out a win to Hoffenheim that is so rare at this point they might as well throw a party to celebrate actually managing to pick up three points; the media won't shut up about Kloppo's future and the headlines splashed all over the papers that say ‘if Dortmund hadn’t sold Götze and Lewandowski then they wouldn’t be struggling for goals.’ Marco knows there's something in that but he doesn't want to think about them, doesn't want to think about Lewy who is seemingly having the time of his life in Munich and scoring five goals in nine minutes for  _fun_ and he's stuck here trying to weather the storm of Dortmund's downwards spiral.

They pick up one point from their final three games and go into the winter break seventeenth in the table and feeling like everyone in the fucking country is talking about and laughing at them.  The team don’t even bother to have a party before they all leave for the break, no one in the mood for it, however Marco is in the mood to get absolutely shitfaced, which he does, and for some reason finds himself in Brackel.  He stumbles through the complex and ends up on the training field, finds a couple of balls where someone’s missed them when they tidied up earlier that day and with his blood buzzing with the alcohol, starts to take free kicks.

Not a single one even hits the crossbar or the posts and after one particularly wild shot Marco hears glass smash.  He’s ninety-five percent sure he’s broken a window and he knows there will be hell to pay when Kloppo finds out, takes a swig of the almost-empty beer bottle to drown the thought and kicks another ball.

He feels like someone has stabbed him through the heart and stamped on his head for good measure.  His throat burns and his legs are shaking until they give way and he’s tired, so tired, his brain is pressing the self-destruct button and he can’t even bring himself to care as he sinks to the ground and falls asleep.

He’s awoken by yells and panicked voices and he’s disorientated, he’s freezing, his head is pounding again, he opens his eyes and there’s no ceiling only sky, it’s windy and everything is too much.  He sits up and there’s the training centre.  Vomit burns in the back of his throat and he doesn’t make any attempt to swallow it back down, sits in a pool of shame as he ejects all the alcohol he consumed last night onto the grass.

Someone rubs his back and he’s mortified to realise it’s the grounds staff and _fuck_ there is Kloppo and he looks both seething and protective, such a contrasting combination that if it was any other scenario Marco would’ve laughed.

“Call Hummels,” Kloppo says to one of his assistants, “he’ll be around to take Reus home.”

Kloppo gestures to the member of the coaching staff that is still massaging Marco’s back to get inside, leaving just the two of them, the howling wind and the sick on the floor.  Kloppo ignores it and kneels down right in front of Marco.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I--,” his voice sounds like shit, “I don’t know how I ended up here.”

“Marco,” Klopp says, voice so gentle Marco wants to cry because he feels like a little boy again when he’d get injured and his father would talk to him about how it’s not in their nature to stay down.  He’s lived by those words through everything he’s been through but even they don’t mean anything to him now.  The sudden emptiness swallows him and he doesn’t have the strength to fight it.  Suddenly he sees Mario all over this training pitch, Mario practicing penalties, Mario passing the ball to him in one of their little drills, Mario squirting with water as the hot August sun beat down on them.  He thought he’d been getting better at dealing with missing him but he’s pressed the self-destruct button and apparently falling apart means realising he’s still in love with Mario despite everything and it’s been two years since they had sex that first time and the hurt washes over him again, fresh and new, and Kloppo is still looking at him. “Marco, what’s going on?”

“I miss Mario,” Marco says plaintively, like a small child.

“We all do.” That’s when Marco realises the emotion in Kloppo’s eyes is _pain_ and it hits him that he never actually acknowledged anyone else’s thoughts on the transfer, went off by himself and cried and left everyone else to deal with it.  He’s brought back to the days when he and Mario would get let off from trouble-making by Kloppo, remembers the slight wink Kloppo would always aim at Mario, remembers the jokes thrown around the dressing room about Mario being a “teacher’s pet.” He remembers that Kloppo’s lost just as much as he has but he’s stayed silent, he’s continued on all the while Marco fell apart and lamented that no one else knew how he was feeling.

“I’m sorry,” his voice is hoarse but is strangely strong, but he’s cut off by Kloppo saying,

“Me too.”

“What for?”

“I never realised that it hurt you quite this badly.  I knew you were devastated that he went but with Pierre and the rest of the guys I thought you were okay.  It wasn’t until the game against them I realised how badly affected you were.  There was stuff I could’ve done to help you.  I didn’t do it, I’m sorry Marco.  I wish we could’ve kept him.  We tried everything.”

“I know you did but I know you couldn’t have done anything.  He still would’ve gone anyway,” Marco somehow finds it in him to laugh, his memory for how stubborn Mario could be still alive and well, “and I thought I was okay until well, now.”

“Kloppo?” Marco hears a voice and sees Mats in the corner of the pitch, taking in the scene.

“One minute, Hummels.  You’re taking Reus home.” Kloppo turns back to him, “you’re going home and you’re going to be super careful because there is no way your body isn’t going to give you consequences of this.  That’ll be all the punishment you’ll get.” Kloppo helps Marco to his feet, “remember, kid, if you need to speak to me, just come and find me.  You’ve been keeping this to yourself for a year and a half and… what you two had, it won’t get any easier if you don’t deal with it.”

Marco nods and walks over to Mats.

“What the fuck?  Bro, you look like shit.  Car’s open,” he says, “I’ve just got to go and speak to Kloppo.”

Marco collapses into the passenger seat and almost passes out asleep when he sees Mats and Kloppo talking gravely.  He finds his keys, phone and wallet in his back pockets and places them on his lap, groaning as Mats slams the car door shut.

“I had no idea it was this bad.”

“He told you then.”

“Of course he fucking did, how could he not when Wolf rang me up at nine in the morning telling me to come down here as soon as possible?  I thought Kloppo had died or something.” Mats glares at him but it’s half-hearted and fades as quickly as it appeared, “you should’ve told me.  I know you were hurt by it when he left but I had no idea you were still suffering.”

“I wasn’t.  I was just drunk.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to destroy yourself.  Or the Kloppo’s office window, for that matter.” Marco groans.  He vaguely remembers the sound of breaking glass.  “He’ll just make you pay for it and it’ll be okay, he’s really worried about you.”

“He doesn’t need to be.”

“Start saying that when the groundsman isn’t finding you passed out on the training ground having stayed there all night.”

‘Touché,’ he thinks but he stays silent because deep down he knows Mats is right.  He even agrees to take care of himself when Mats drops him back at his house, thanks him for his offer of help and watches as Mats’ car pulls away.  He misses driving, he really does, but he can’t exactly take one of his cars and drive through Dortmund when Bild released the fine he has paid to the rest of the country just three days ago.

Inside, everything’s just as he left it, except his house suddenly feels hauntingly big.  He goes into the living room, sits on the sofa and tries not to think about the fallout of what he’s done.  He wishes, more than ever, that Mario would just text him.  It’s too late for him to reply to the last messages.

(Mario wakes up to his phone ringing.  It’s Mats, which is surprising, because Mats never calls, so he actually sits up and answers it instead of burrowing under the covers and waiting for the voicemail.  Mario wishes he had, because the noise he makes when Mats tells him about Marco being found on the training field is embarrassing but he’s so confused because that doesn’t sound like the Marco he knows and he’s so scared.  He goes to message him, but then his eyes fall on the ‘read’ sign and he clicks away.  ‘He won’t care about what I have to say anyway,’ he thinks.)

☆

 **Marco:** merry christmas

He scolds himself for how pathetic he is, having second-thoughts over wishing Mario _Merry Christmas._ It’s a message so bland it’s basically courtesy, and Marco is overthinking sending it to Mario, who once knew everything about him, sometimes before Marco knew it himself?  He has to wonder if he really has gone and lost it.

He sighs and clicks send before he loses his nerve.

He’s not expecting how quickly the reply comes in.

 **Mario:** merry christmas

 **Mario:** have a good one

He texts back before he can think about not.

 **Marco:** what are you doing today?

 **Mario:** family are all here in munich.  mutti’s gonna experience the joys of felix and my kitchen

 **Marco:** god i’d kill for some of your mother’s cooking

 **Mario:** are you in dubai?

 **Marco:** no.  i got sick again.  my family are all there though

 **Mario:** you’re alone on christmas??

 **Marco:** yeah

 **Mario:** and new years?

 **Marco:** yeah

 **Mario:** you should come visit

He says it like it's obvious, like the past eighteen months haven't happened.  Like the argument in Munich and everything that's happened since didn't exist.  

 **Marco:** i don't think that's a good idea

 **Mario:** i thought you might say that

 **Mario:** i miss you and so does my family

 **Marco:** mario it's not the same anymore

 **Marco:** it's not like how it used to be

 **Mario:** you were basically my parents fourth son!

 **Marco:** 'were' 

 **Marco:** you know it's not like that between us anymore

 **Marco:** what are you even doing on new years

 **Mario:** throwing a party

 **Mario:** all the bayern guys that aren't away will be there

 **Mario:** you could meet david!!!

 **Marco:** i'm sorry mario.  i don't think i'll come

 **Marco:** things are too different now

He doesn't want to think of what he might see if he went.  Drunk Mario was always clingy, and Marco just knows that he'd walk in on Mario clinging onto Alaba with that  _look_ in his eyes, the one he used to give him, and it wouldn't be like he could just escape.

 **Mario:** :(

 **Mario:** that wasn't the only thing i wanted to talk to you about

 **Marco:** what is it?

 **Mario:** i know why you got sick.  mats told me

 **Marco:** i'm okay i swear

 **Mario:** i know you guys are struggling but how are things there?

 **Marco:** training is fine it’s just when we get to a match it’s like we all collectively forget how to play football or something

 **Marco:** in the relegation battle

 **Marco:** the fans are going to turn on us soon

 **Mario:** you know they would never do that

 **Mario:** you could be bottom of 3. Liga and westfalen would still sell out every week

 **Mario:** you’ll be fine

 **Mario:** you almost beat us

That’s it.  There’s the stinging reminder that Mario now plays in red, not yellow, the familiarity of their texting almost luring Marco to believe they were back in 2012.

 **Marco:** i hope so

 **Marco:** it just feels like everything is going wrong

 **Marco:** missed the world cup, got fined publicly, bottom of the Bundesliga, great!

 **Mario:** i know

 **Mario:** you're strong marco, you'll get through it

 **Mario:** but why were you alone 

 **Mario:** surely that was the night of the dortmund christmas party?

 **Marco:** there was no dortmund christmas party

 **Marco:** why the fuck would we want to celebrate the dizzy heights of 17th 

 **Marco:** i got drunk alone and ended up on the pitch

 **Mario:** how sick did you get

 **Marco:** in bed for two days?

 **Mario:** jesus marco you got off lightly

 **Mario:** you could've caught something really bad

 **Mario:** what would bvb do without their star

 **Marco:** probably better than they do with me

 **Mario:** fuck off you know that's not true

 **Mario:** i know you'll pull through

 **Mario:** i'm still supporting you always

 **Marco:** thanks

 **Marco:** i should go.  i've got some leftovers that needs heating up

 **Mario:** leftovers on christmas day?

 **Mario:** fuck marco

 **Mario:** i wish you were here

 **Mario:** i miss you on the pitch all the time

 **Marco:** why 

 **Marco:** you have all these wonderful teammates

 **Marco:** lewy, robben, ribery, thomas

 **Mario:** they're not you

 **Marco:** you knew that when you left though

 **Mario:** i know

 **Mario:** that doesn't stop me from missing you

 **Mario:** i gotta go.  dinner's almost ready and mutti wants to burn the spirits

 **Mario:** merry christmas

 **Marco:** merry christmas 

☆

Their conversation on Christmas Day apparently gives Mario the idea that they’re back to something like they were, seeing as he won’t stop messaging Marco about all the little details of his life with the frequency that they used to have back in Dortmund.  It would be cute, Marco thinks, if it wasn’t for the fact that so many of those details involved David Alaba.

The Bundesliga begins again and a draw against Leverkusen should be a good result for them, if it wasn’t for the fact they drop right back down to the bottom of the table, and there’s no immediate bounce back when they lose at home to Augsburg the next weekend.  They’re properly in last place then, not just from goal difference, and it’s then that Kloppo brings them all into the auditorium after training.

Mats has tears in his eyes and Marco knows that whatever is coming is not going to be good.

His premonitions of doubt don’t prevent him from feeling like everything is caving in again when Kloppo says he’s resigning at the end of the season.  He barely listens to the fact that the media isn’t going to find out until April, doesn’t pay attention to Kloppo’s explanation that he’s jumping before he’s pushed.  After Mario left, he relied on his coach’s presence to keep him sane.

Now Kloppo’s going too, and he’s going to be stuck with a new manager who doesn’t know what Marco’s been through, doesn’t understand him like Kloppo does.

The team file out of the auditorium in silence. 

They play Freiburg the next day and as they’re lining up to walk out onto the pitch, Auba appears behind him. 

“I’ve got a good feeling about this.” He says, smiling so brightly no one would’ve ever guessed they were bottom of the Bundesliga and they found out their beloved manager is departing less than twenty-four hours ago.  Marco hugs him like they always do, puts on a confident smirk for the cameras that are zoned in on the two of them.

Marco finds out Auba’s right when he takes the ball off the defender and passes it to Marco for a tap in.  When Auba scores his second, Marco can’t stop himself from punching the air with joy because they’ve scored three and there’s only twenty minutes left.  When the whistle blows for full time Marco can’t stop himself from finding Auba in the crowd of players and jumping on his back, because they’ve won a Bundesliga game for the first time in two months and the side look rejuvenated.

In a way, Kloppo’s announcement motivates the squad; all of them wanting to give their best for him and not have his Dortmund career end on a low.  They beat Mainz and Stuttgart and they’re back at twelfth, suddenly not looking like they’re going to get humiliated by Schalke in the Revierderby.

He’s cooking himself some goulash when he hears a knock on the door.  Auba is there, a mischievous smirk on his face and Marco is suddenly very excited to hear what he’s got planned.

“So tomorrow is the derby,” Auba smirks once they’ve sat down to dinner (Marco quickly added some more goulash to the cooking pot and invited Auba to stay) “and earlier today I saw some leaked information about the Batman film coming out next year.  I seem to remember a drunk Marco suggesting something back in October and,” Auba opens the bag he hasn’t let out of his sight since he arrived at Marco’s and pulls out something, “I went and bought this.”

Marco unwraps the material and barks out a laugh when he sees the two masks.

“I’ll be Batman,” Auba grabs the mask and puts it on, modelling it with the most ridiculous expression Marco has to wipe away the tears of laughter, “and you can be Robin.”

Marco takes the other mask and pulls an equally-silly pose, exaggerating his face when he gives Auba his phone and he takes a photo of the two of them.

“You shouldn’t post it, got to keep the surprise for tomorr--- Mario’s texted you.” Auba cuts himself off and hands the phone back wordlessly.

 **Mario:** hey marco

 **Mario:** i’m so glad bvb is doing better!!

 **Marco:** thank you but i can’t talk right now

 **Marco:** i’m having dinner with auba

 **Marco:** watch our game tomorrow because our goal celebration is going to be amazing

 **Mario:** sure.  i’ll let you go then

 **Mario:** good luck tomorrow.

“What did he want?” Auba asks when Marco pockets his phone.

“He just wanted to congratulate us on having better performances.”

Auba nods and takes another bite of his food.

It’s looking like it’s going to be a goalless draw and Auba’s costume idea for nothing when Auba finally scores the first goal with 12 minutes left, takes the masks from Kloppo and lets him and Marco be photographed looking like idiots, and Marco is laughing and he’s finally having fun on a football pitch again.  After that, Schalke’s defence opens like floodgates and when Marco scores the third after sliding in on the goalkeeper’s indecision, the crowd at the Signal-Iduna explodes and this is it, this is what they’ve been missing for the whole of the season.

They leave the pitch and they’re trending on twitter, their Batman and Robin celebration going down a huge hit and Marco’s quite impressed with his drunken self for having such a brilliant idea.  Kloppo is ecstatic, they’ve broken into the top ten in the table when at the start of the month they were dead last, and they’ve won the derby.

 They don’t score for the next two games, but neither do their opponents, and then they travel to Hannover and score another three, Auba getting a brace, and Marco cannot believe how fantastic he is and how he looks like he was born to play for Dortmund.  He thinks that if he were a kid again, as Dortmund-obsessed as he was, Auba would be his favourite player.

“I’d definitely sign your shirt," is all Auba says when Marco tells him, but he can tell his friend is delighted.

It’s only when Auba leaves his side to go the the international departure gate of the airport terminal while Marco checks in with Mats and Roman for their flight to Berlin does he realise that he’s going to see Mario again, for the first time since October; and as far as he knows they’re still assigned to room together.  Mario hasn't texted him since the night before the derby, so Marco doesn't know if he saw the celebration that he knows Mario will  _love._ Still though, Marco doesn't miss him anywhere near as desperately as he did that night at the start of the winter break, and revels in the feeling that he might, finally, be getting over him.

He, Roman and Mats are the last ones to arrive at the training centre and they take a moment to survey the team all milling around before entering and having the attention directed solely at them.  Thomas is as hyperactive as ever, laughing with Manu and Basti about something, Mesut and Sami are clinging onto each other like they’ve managed to escape from a sinking ship, Jonas Hector and Toni Kroos are deep in conversation and then Marco’s eyes fall on Mario.  He’s not talking to anyone, rather, his eyes are scanning the room as if he’s looking for someone very intently.

‘Probably Alaba.’ A small part of Marco thinks bitterly.

He doesn’t have any more time to ponder that thought though, because Mats has pushed open the doors to the centre and he’s got to follow him inside, wincing at the screams coming from the usual suspects (Thomas) at their appearance.  Mats, Roman and he are crowded against each other as they’re surrounded in what must be some attempt at a group hug, given Marco sees Thomas, Manu, Lukas, Basti all encircling them, watches as Toni and Jonas have somehow managed to be worked into the hug, stifles a laugh at the blush that forms on Jonas’ cheeks.

That’s when he’s handed a key card by Basti who whispers, “I’ll explain later.” When he flips it over, he sees REUS & BOATENG written on the back, finds Jerome who, much to Marco’s surprise, is decidedly _not surprised._

Marco tries not to focus on the sinking feeling in his stomach that tells him Mario asked for this, because he and Mario have always roomed together on the National Team.  He’s even more confused when Mario walks right up to him with Andre and opens his arms for a hug like nothing’s happened, and draws him into his and Andre’s conversation, which is apparently about the merits of Justin Bieber’s first album.  An album he and Mario spent far too many hours badly dancing to back when Mario was still with him at Dortmund.

He tries to add some insightful opinions, argues good-naturedly with Mario when the younger tries to insist that _Baby_ is actually good, just people hate it because it was cool to.  Their conversation is so easy it’s jarring when Marco remembers the last time they actually spoke face to face was when Mario deliberately _avoided_ speaking face to face with him, and now he’s asked to swap roommates but is still acting like Marco’s his best friend?

Marco isn’t even ashamed when he corners Basti at what is quite literally the first chance he gets.

“It was weird.  He was scrolling through his phone with a smile on his face after training when he suddenly started glaring at it.  Next thing I know, he’s stuffed it into his bag and demanded that I don’t put him with you for the rooming arrangements.”

“When was this?”

“The day of your game against Schalke.”

“He was scrolling through social media?”

Basti nods, “well I assume so.”

The Batman and Robin celebration.  It was everywhere on that day, posted by accounts Marco knows Mario follows.  He knows Mario would’ve seen him and Auba flaunting their inside joke to the whole world, but Marco thought he would’ve found it hilarious.

“Apparently not.” Basti says when Marco mentions this.  “Although it seems pretty likely that is what annoyed him.  He always leaves the conversation whenever anyone mentions Aubameyang.”

“You guys talk about Auba?”

“Yeah.  Mario might not have liked the Batman celebration, but Thomas did.  He keeps trying to wheedle Arjen into dressing up as well.”

 At the mention of his name, Thomas comes over.

“What are you saying about me?”

“I was just telling Marco how much you loved the Batman and Robin celebration he and Aubameyang did against Schalke,” Basti says and Thomas’ face literally lights up.

“Yes!” He exclaims, grabbing Marco’s arm and shaking it so vigorously Marco is sure he’ll have cramp in the morning, “where did it come from?”

“We both love Batman and I suggested it after we had a movie marathon months ago.  We just never got around to actually doing it until the derby though.”

“EVERYONE!” Thomas shouts, instantly gathering the attentions of the entire team (including Jogi, who Marco sees just roll his eyes and mutter something to himself), “MARCO WILL USE THE POWER OF ROBIN AND WE WILL WIN THIS GAME AGAINST GEORGIA.”

Some of the team cheer, others groan, some laugh but Marco notices Mario stare at the floor and take a deep breath.  One glance at Basti tells him that the captain is thinking the exact same thoughts as him.

Thomas dismisses the group’s attention and the general chatter rises up again, Toni yelling something obnoxious at Benni while Mesut and Sami have reverted back to their giggling teenage girl phase.  Mario and Andre walk straight up to Marco and pull him away from the centre of the group of Bayern players who’ve dissolved into bickering about who’s had the best season (Thomas, naturally, is insisting it should be him while Manu is saying that _without him_ Thomas’ performances wouldn’t mean shit anyway) and take him into the lift.

“I,” Mario says, a glimmer in his eye, “have not destroyed you on FIFA in almost two years, and that is far too long a time for us to have gone without playing it.”

“Lies.  I seem to remember I win every time.”

“The only time you’ve ever beaten me was when I was drunk!  And even that was on penalties!”

“Don’t you ever feel bad, spouting all this shit?” Marco shoots back.

“Whatever, Reus.” Mario says, unlocking the door to his and Andre’s room.  FIFA is already set up on the TV, Messi’s face staring at the animated ball and Mario chucks Marco a controller and opens the team selection.

Marco expects Mario to choose Bayern, he’s ready to pick Dortmund and have a FIFA ‘Der Klassiker,’ he’s slightly shocked when Mario selects Barca.  He instinctively selects Real Madrid, deciding that if a Klassiker is too awkward, they might as well have a Clasico.

Marco’s so thrown off by playing FIFA with Mario again he isn’t ready for the game to start.  At least, that’s the excuse he chucks out when Mario starts crowing about how his ‘lies’ were always going to come back to haunt him.  Marco refuses to give Mario the satisfaction and concentrates, smirking when he equalises two minutes later.

Marco ends up winning 5-4 and turns to tease Mario whose face has already assumed a defensive air.

“You were saying about destroying me?”

“Shut up.  We both know you cheated.”

“That penalty was fair!  You should know you can’t mistime a slide-tackle in the box.”

Mario starts chanting something about how Marco “paid the ref,” and it’s so disjointed, feels like it’s one of their old endless FIFA sessions, taking him back to all the times Marco would beat him and Mario would find some sort of thing to bring up to insist Marco cheated.

“Whatever you say, I still won,” Marco smirks at him, “and I think the rules were that winner stays on, so Schürrle, get over here and prepare to have your ass kicked.”

Marco does manage to beat Andre, but then he loses to Mario again (the younger one insisting that this victory was much fairer) so he’s resigned to sitting on the bed and laughing at the verbal insults Andre and Mario throw at each other.  The three of them alternate playing and watching, until Basti comes to their door and yells at them to “turn it down, some of us are trying to sleep!”

Marco takes that as his cue to leave, not wanting to disturb Jerome too late at night, so he quits the game he’s currently playing with Andre and stands up.  Andre waves a goodbye in his general direction, obviously eager to get into the bathroom before Mario (Marco doesn’t blame him, he knows the youngest one can take forever to get ready to go to bed, tries not to think about why he knows that so well) but Mario follows him to the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” Mario asks.

“Sure, if we’re not asked to do some bullshit team-building activity by Jogi.  I mean, it’s a miracle that we’ve been here like twelve hours and we haven’t been forced to try and build a boat out of cardboard yet.”

Mario snorts at the memory of him, Marco, Andre and Erik trying to fight Mesut, Sami, Lukas and Basti for a particularly shiny piece of gold cardboard that would _definitely_ get them full points for decoration.  It had ended up with Andre and Lukas quite literally scrapping for it, and said cardboard ended up getting ripped so badly neither team ended up using it; although Basti did have the absolutely _brilliant_ idea of fashioning a pirate hat out of it and dropping it on Fips’ head.

“Remember Fips!” Mario cries, evidently on the same thought wavelength as him, “god, if looks could kill Basti would’ve been six feet under!”

“I was so annoyed at Julian when he decided he wanted it and stole it right off Fips’ head, it was perfect for him!”

They start laughing until Marco hears Basti’s footsteps storming down the hallway and his voice, quiet but sharp, telling them to shut the fuck up.  Marco waits until the voice and the footsteps subside, winces at the slamming of a door that must be his room, murmurs goodbye to Mario and leaves without a backwards glance.

When he arrives back, Jerome is on his laptop with his headphones in and talking to someone.  He looks uneasy when he sees Marco, passing furtive glances between him and his computer screen.

“What’s up?” Marco asks.

“I’m just talking to… Lewy.” Jerome looks uncertain, like he knows Marco might not take the reminder that Lewy has also swapped the yellow for red very well.  Marco just shrugs and throws himself into the camera, half noticing the faint smell of sweat coming from Jerome and the gleam of it on Lewy’s skin through the camera.

“Hey.” He says to Lewy, who waves in response.  Marco notes his cheeks are a little pink and makes a mental note to investigate further.  “How much longer are you guys going to be talking?”

“Until you’re ready to go to bed.” Jerome answers, “Lewy has his own room so it’s not affecting anyone over there.  Perks of being captain.”

Marco waves again and heads into the bathroom, listening in on Jerome and Lewy’s conversation.  Jerome sounds so _soft_ when he speaks to Robert, and although he can’t hear Robert’s replies the gentle laughs Jerome is giving makes Marco instantly suspect.

Once he’s done, he exits the bathroom and immediately clocks the barely-concealed look of disappointment written on Jerome’s face and in his voice as he waves goodbye and hangs up on Lewy.

“Is there anything I should know?” Marco teases, not missing the way Jerome's face flushes pink. “Has Jeri got a crush on Lewandowski?”

“Fuck off,” Jerome says, not unkindly, “Jogi will kill us if we underperform at training tomorrow because we're tired.”

“That's the only reason why I'm dropping this,” Marco replies, making sure Jerome can't miss the teasing lilt in his voice, “you can't hide from me!”

Jerome laughs and switches off the lights, “night, Marco.”

Luckily for them, they’re both awake and fully functioning the next morning, avoiding Jogi’s wrath and the inevitable annoying comments from their teammates.  At breakfast, Marco slides into the empty seat in between Mario and Andre that Mario starts patting the moment they make eye contact, but who sheepishly admits he hasn’t noticed anything when Marco quizzes him on Jerome and Lewy.  He pledges to support Marco’s investigation anyway and bounds up to him after dinner the second night of the training camp, telling him he saw Jerome’s phone screen and that he and Robert have been sending each other very clingy texts.  Training goes well for the most part, although Marco and Mario don’t get to play any more games of FIFA.  Jogi calls them all into the common room every single night, until the team end up playing guessing games through the whole of training on what Jogi will brandish out of his _cupboard_ that night. 

Marco suggests painting, an idea that earns him an absolutely incredulous look from Basti that Marco is sure is an impression of Fips’s trademark horrified glare.  Mario is holding out for a team-wide tournament of FIFA, and Jonas shyly admits he thinks it’ll be some sort of game with a parachute, like they’re back in primary school.  Marco looks at Thomas, who is currently trying tapping Manu’s shoulder and then acting like it was Mats and concludes that Jonas’ idea is not too far-fetched.

It turns out that the night before the game against Georgia, none of their guesses are right.  To Marco and Jonas’ horror, Basti’s excitement and Mesut’s immediate teasing of Sami, they walk into the common room to find that Jogi has set up a karaoke machine.

“Fucking hell, what else has he got in there?” Toni remarks, earning him an incredibly childish comment from Thomas that causes Jonas to blush to the tips of his ears.

The team grumbles when Jogi explains that they will all have to sing, Marco hears Sami mumble something about being far too sober for this and decides that he is very ready to hear whatever Sami Khedira will sing for them that night.  Basti and Lukas kick it off with an incredible (or awful) duet to _Time Of My Life_ from Dirty Dancing, and Marco wonders exactly how Basti can get through a whole song without hitting any of the notes.  Surely, he should hit at least one by chance, but that doesn’t stop him howling with laughter as he hears him try to hit the crescendo while trying to recreate the iconic lift until Jogi screams at them to stop before one or both of them gets injured.

Shkodran, Ron-Robert and Max’s performances pass without specific note, until Marco realises _Mario_ is standing up from his seat next to him, watches as he makes his way to the front.

“I will be singing what is the _best_ Justin Bieber song from his first album, no matter what Reus and Schürrle say otherwise.” The grin on Mario’s face is shit-eating and Marco cringes, because even though he knows what’s coming he isn’t prepared for this when the opening strains of the song begin.

Mario’s singing is atrocious but apparently Marco’s teammates don’t care, from the way they’re all dancing in the part of the room Jogi has designated as a ‘dancefloor’ and wailing along to the chorus.  Marco is sure that anyone who hears twenty-two grown men screaming the words to _Baby_ would rather have their ears bleached, but at the front Mario is sweaty, and beaming, and although Marco wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, one look at the expression on Mario’s face makes Marco pull himself to his feet and enter into the crowd of his dancing teammates.

The song ends and his teammates roar, only for the noise to get impossibly louder when they see Mesut pushing a very reluctant Sami up to the front.  Sami gives the most ironic performance of Bob Marley Marco thinks anyone's given ever, singing about being happy while looking like he’d wants to die, grimacing when he notices the countless Snapchat videos Mesut is taking of his performance.  When he’s done, he shoves Mesut to the microphone, taking his own social media orientated revenge at Mesut’s ear-splittingly bad rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_ that has the entire team swaying in unison and pretending to wipe away tears, and Thomas practically manhandling Manu into doing the Jack and Rose pose with him at the climax.

Andre sings next, and then Jerome, who walks straight into the crowd and hands the microphone directly to Marco.

He tries not to let on the strange nerves that have overcome him when he deliberates over the song choices on the screen, ignores the whistles from Thomas and Mats that are yelling at him to hurry up and get on with it, before his eyes fall on the perfect song and the cheers begin when the guitar riff plays through the speakers.

The lyrics are almost too perfect a description for the pain of the last two years, the team who were there when he suffered the injury that took him out of the World Cup, the team who watched him while his club slipped further and further down the Bundesliga table, the team that saw him lose his friends, and his lover, to other clubs.  The team who is dancing and singing along, while said ex-lover is at the back of the crowd, watching Marco with an intense gaze as he belts out the chorus of _Don’t Look Back in Anger._

His singing isn’t great yet somehow, he knows the screams of approval for his song choice were louder than anyone else’s for the whole night.

Thomas and Manu follow him, a comedic interpretation of _You’re The One That I Want_ that has the team in stiches, particularly when Thomas rolls his hips sensually like he’s wearing a dress and Manu can't hide his blush. A couple more performances pass, until the team realise the only two that haven’t performed are Toni, who is rolling his eyes, and Jonas, who's face is red and his expression pained. Toni whispers something to Jonas who nods, and the two of them take the stage for a seeming duet.  Jonas is secretly an _incredible_ singer, hitting all the high notes in _I Want It That Way_ with such a beauty that even Toni is surprised.  They bring the house down and Marco expects the lights to go up and for Jogi to instruct them back to their rooms, when all of a sudden all of the lights go off and a spotlight hits the stage and a roar runs riot through the room when the team spots Jogi and Müller-Wohlfahrt on the platform, poised to sing.

They start with a parodical version of _Three Lions (Football’s Coming Home)_ which results in the whole team throwing shade about England and the fact that their manager is Roy Hodgson, Mats doing an owl impression that has Marco literally screaming.  Next to him, Mario is filming the whole event, not even trying to hide the tears of laughter pouring down his face.  Jogi and Hans change song to _Atemlos durch die Nacht_ , before ending with a performance of _Take On Me_ that has even Jonas singing along at the top of his lungs.

They’re sweaty, but smiling, and it’s only nine in the evening when the lights come back on and Jogi directs them all back to their rooms for an early night before the game tomorrow.  No one can stop talking about their coach’s performance, and when they finally can, break out into overdramatic compliments of Jonas’ singing voice that has him blushing _again._

Marco’s just about to head into his room when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Mario says when Marco turns around, “good song choice today.”

“Thanks.  I wish I could say the same for you.”

Mario rolls his eyes, “some people just have no taste.”

Marco laughs at that, and it almost feels like old times, the inconsequential, never-ending jibes they threw at one another.

“How do you feel about tomorrow?” Mario asks him.

“Good, I think we can win.”

“Me too,” Mario replies, but he looks nervous, “I hope I have a good performance.”

“You always have a good performance.”

“Thanks, Marco but you know that’s not true.  I’m getting quite a lot of criticism at the moment, and Guardiola’s less than impressed with me and the chairman isn’t fond of me either, so I need a good game to give me back my confidence.”

Marco doesn’t live under a rock, he’s been aware of the media beginning to talk about Mario and his stagnation, dismissed it as just them taking their chance for sensationalism.  The Mario he knew in Dortmund never seemed to care about whatever the media was saying, so the loss of his self-belief at their hands is striking and concerning to Marco.

“They don’t know how fantastic you are and if Bayern are chatting shit about you, then they obviously don’t appreciate what you can do for them either.  They will, though.  Go out there tomorrow and if you give them just a glimpse of what you can do, they’ll realise what they’re misusing.”

Mario smiles at that and hugs him before Marco has chance to react.

“Thanks, Mar.  I have to go now, I promised David I’d video call with him!  See you tomorrow,” Mario says and heads down the corridor before Marco can even say goodnight.

He thought he was doing okay, being in his presence not really affecting his attempts to get over him, but when he sees Andre’s snapchat story, a badly-taken photo of Mario on his laptop with the caption ‘trying to sleep but this one doesn’t shut up,’ he can’t deny the aching pang of guilt that slaps him across the face.  He can see Mario’s smile even through the blur, doesn’t need high quality to know it’s the full-face, unabashed grin he only gives when he’s feeling completely comfortable, a grin that has not been aimed at Marco for far too long.

He rolls over with a groan.  He was in way deeper than he thought, and he’s still got a mountain to climb to get out.

It seems the team-bonding exercise has done wonders for the chemistry in the team, even though Marco can barely hold back his smirk when they’re singing the national anthem and Basti and Manu are just as out of tune during that than they were during the karaoke session the previous night.  Georgia hold a good defence line, but Germany keep attacking, Marco slipping into his old attacking duo with Mario like nothing has ever changed.  He watches as Mario weaves his way between three defenders, causing them to run into each other while Mario slides Marco the ball without even needing to look at him, and it’s a simple finish to put them one up.

Mario runs over to celebrate and jumps into his arms, but then Marco feels a brush of lips on his neck and his blood runs cold through his veins.  Even after two years, the faintest of touches of Mario’s lips is instantly recognisable to him, his heart is beating wildly and he’s so grateful for the appearance of the rest of their teammates because any longer of just him and Mario he thinks his knees would’ve turned to jelly.

They win in the end, Thomas scoring another goal right before half-time that seals it.  Mario goes off and Marco watches him go forlornly, because although he knows Mario has been fantastic on the pitch, he doesn’t know if the bastards at Bayern would’ve, if they paid any attention to him in the first place.  His neck is still fizzing from the feeling of his lips, the warm breath against his neck and Marco can chuck away all misconceptions he had about being over him once and for all.  But after the game Marco can’t ignore the feeling that Mario is looking at him more than usual, wonders if Mario picked up on the kiss too (if Marco can even call it that.)

Mario’s weirdly quiet throughout the boisterous team dinner, quietly talking to Jonas but then going silent completely, barely even cracking a smile when Thomas spills a whole jug of water on himself.  Marco watches him out of the corner of his eye from where he’s sitting next to him, replying to Auba’s excited messages congratulating him for his goal.

There’s no team-building activity tonight, although the team is spread out all over the common room (Marco doesn’t even want to know why Jerome is upside down over the arm of the sofa), but Mario disappears upstairs the moment dinner is over.  Marco checks that no one is paying attention to him and sneaks off to find him.

He gets the whole way to Mario’s room before considering that Mario might want to be left alone, before shaking his head and knocking.

Mario is pale when he answers the door.

“Marco?” He says, surprised, opening the door to let him in.

“Why aren’t you downstairs?”

“I wasn’t in the mood for it,” Mario sighs, eyes dropping to the floor, “I know we won and all, but I just feel like my form is dropping and no matter what I do, they won’t care about me.”

“By ‘they,’ do you mean Bayern?” Mario just nods in response, “I meant what I said yesterday about you making them realise what they’re missing.  You played really well today, that assist to me was brilliant.  You had all the defenders at your feet and you slotted me the pass without even looking at me.  What about your teammates at Bayern?”

“They’re all great, especially David, but what’s the point in being surrounded by great players when you yourself is useless?”

“You’re not useless,” Marco forces Mario to look at him, “and you know you’re not.  You were the pride of the nation last summer.  They can’t expect you to score the winning goal of the World Cup every single day, and it wouldn’t be as special if you did.”

“Doesn’t stop them from ridiculing me all over the papers.”

“Since when did you start paying attention to the crap the media had to say about you?”  Mario doesn’t answer him.  Marco’s blood is rushing through his ears and he’s sure his face is turning slightly red, but he hates seeing Mario like this and needs him to understand that it’s not the truth.  “You lived through the entire transfer saga and I know it wasn’t easy for you but what’s some incorrect critique compared to some of the shit they were saying about you back then?”  That’s it.  That’s the first time they’ve mentioned Mario moving to Munich in person since the night before he left.  Marco sees Mario flinch, but continues anyway, because he’s opened the floodgates now and he can’t control the tide of water cascading through, “Bayern is what you wanted, Mario, that’s what you told me back then, you left the life you had in Dortmund for it and we miss you every single day but it was what you wanted so badly that it shouldn’t matter what the media are saying.  It might be tough now, but nothing worth doing is easy.  You have a wonderful team around you, Thomas, Manu, Jerome,” Marco pauses, tries not to sound venomous but he can hear the spit in his voice, “Alaba.”

“David’s been helping me,” Mario admits, “he takes my phone off me and deletes whatever I’m reading when he catches me looking at articles and shit but I just can’t stop.”

“I’m glad he’s there for you.”

“Why do you even care?” Mario’s tone sounds angry now, his voice raised, and Marco has obviously missed whatever he’s said to aggravate him, “why are you really here Marco, why do you care about me in Munich, why are you wasting your time that you should be spending calling your boyfriend about what you’re going to dress up as next?!”

It’s too much to digest that Marco actually laughs, which is quite possibly the worst possible response judging by the complete look of hurt that crosses over Mario’s face. 

“Mario, you don’t really think, are you _serious_ , you think me and Auba are a thing?” Marco gets out when he finally manages to choke down his giggles, “he has a wife and child for fuck’s sake!” Mario at least has the decency to look embarrassed, “why are you even paying that much attention to what I’m doing in Dortmund when you could be clinging onto Alaba and singing Disney songs until the sun comes up?”

His tone is harsher than he expected, and this is really not how he planned this conversation to go, but it’s freeing.  He feels like a weight is lifting off his shoulders even though past Marco would’ve coiled inside at the obvious pain in Mario’s eyes.

“Because I still fucking care about you more than anyone else, that’s why!  I thought that I’d always have you, that’s the impression you gave me when I left, but then I see you and him all over Instagram, all over Twitter, all I ever see is pictures of the two of you and I can’t avoid the feeling of that I’ve lost you!”

“You can’t be serious,” Marco makes a sound that sounds like a laugh, but his voice is so hollow it sounds wrong, “you can’t really have gone to Munich thinking everything would’ve been the same between us.  And you sure haven’t acted like you wanted it either, what with telling me to get lost and then asking Basti to split us up in the rooming arrangements!” Adrenaline is coursing through Marco’s body like he’s just finished a full ninety-minute final, the room is spinning slightly, his heart beating far too fast, but he can tell just from Mario’s body language what a detriment his words have had.

“You make me sound so stupid,” Mario says, so quietly Marco almost misses it, “you say it like it’s obvious, but I was young, and I thought you understood.”

“I tried so hard to understand Mario, you have no idea.  Some days I think I’m still _trying._  I just don’t think I can do it anymore.”

“What about Lewy?  What happened when he left?”

“It was quiet.”

It’s the truth.  It wasn’t like Mario, like a bomb had detonated in the middle of the dressing room and left everyone reeling. Lewy’s departure was quieter, the end of a contract the reason for his leaving meaning it felt like the chapter was properly closed and not like the book was abandoned halfway through the plotline.

“Could you understand him going?”

“I guess.”

“Then why couldn’t you understand me?” Mario whispers.

Marco wants to scream at him, wants to shake him until he feels the hurt he’s caused to Marco, everything that Marco has dealt with because he didn’t want to be anything other than completely supportive of Mario’s career, wants to make him realise exactly how much pain Marco has suffered.  However, his voice feels like it’s on fire, and all he can croak out is,

“I was in love with you.”

He never said it.  All the times back in Dortmund, the nights when Mario would stay over at his and they’d sleep together, the movie nights, the parties, he’d never actually told him he loved him with words.  He’d shown it, with his body, his touches, his kisses, he thought Mario had understood him, but from the look on his face Marco knows the messages were always lost in translation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to.  I _did_ , over text message.  Read our chats from the world cup.”

“You know texts don't mean it like saying it out loud does. If you’d said it, I would’ve stayed.”

Marco shakes his head, doesn’t want to listen to Mario try and explain himself, doesn’t want to relieve what is one of the worst days of his life even despite a career littered with heartbreak, because the scariest thing would be if Mario explains and he understands, it’ll tip his carefully-balanced world right on its head.

“You told me you wanted it.”

He heads for the door, but Mario gets there first.

“Do you think Dortmund would have me back?”

 _Yes,_ Marco wants to scream, _yes, they’d have you back with open arms and they’d give you the number 10 but it’s different, it’s going to be so different because Kloppo is leaving and Lewy isn’t there anymore and I don’t know what’s going to happen and it won’t be like it used to, even if you and I were a fraction of what we once were._

“Don’t get my hopes up, Mario.”

He leaves without saying goodbye.

☆

He avoids any conversation that could even bring reference to Mario for the next three weeks.  Mario doesn’t text or call him and although Marco is thankful as he wouldn’t know what to say anyway, he is worried because what little he has caught of Bayern’s games have been heart-wrenching.  Mario has barely played, and when he does, it’s obvious he has no faith in himself.  Guardiola barely acknowledges him whenever he subs Mario off, and the face of their manager and the rumours of his treatment of his players make Marco swear that he will never go to Bayern for as long as he is playing for.

Kloppo comes into the dressing room eerily quiet but it’s not the kind of silence that screams a warning of a bad mood.  He looks reserved, almost weary, which is an emotion Marco has almost never seen on his face.  It takes him one look at the dressing room for the whole team to fall silent, “today is my press conference and I’m going to announce that I’m leaving.”

None of them are surprised by this, the rumours have begun circling in the media, Dortmund’s attempts to keep their search for a new manager out of the media not quite successful, but Marco isn’t ready for the uproar that’s going to come from their fans, isn’t ready for whoever Watzke is going to hire next.

“When’s the press conference?” Mats asks.

“After the training session.”

They train like normal, blanking the never-ending stream of media cars that pour through the gates to the training ground.  They demand interviews, any hint of what this sudden press conference is about, but the team feign nonchalance perfectly.  Mats heeds his captain responsibilities and fulfils their demands on player interviews but refuses to answer any questions demanding to know about the subject of the conference.  Training finishes late, darkness falling over the hills surrounding the training ground, the streetlights igniting the city centre and the floodlights of the Signal-Iduna shining in the distance by the time they all head inside. Mats offers to have them all go over to his house, for them to watch the conference together, and all it takes is some basic pleading from both Mats and Auba for Marco to agree to join them all.

The team manage to get out of the training ground before the media has even finished setting their equipment up.  Later there will be hell to pay when the media clamour for more player interviews and have to be informed that the team have all gone home, but Marco knows he isn’t the only one relieved that they don’t have to talk about Kloppo’s departure to the same people who will only twist their words out of context anyway.

Kloppo is blunt and delivers the bombshell with the same understated tone as he told the team.  Marco knows he’s going, he’s known for months, but that doesn’t stop Kloppo’s words ringing around his head again, reigniting all the fears about the unpredictability of the new manager.  Kloppo’s all he’s ever known at Dortmund, and he hates the fact that it had to end like that.

Watzke starts speaking then, dulcet tones about how much Kloppo has meant to the club and about the search for the new manager and it feels so forced, like they’re just going to write over Kloppo like the two Bundesliga titles didn’t exist; he knows looking forward is how they want to view this, but Marco can’t stop himself from looking back.

He knows the Bayern players must have seen the press conference because suddenly Marco’s phone is buzzing violently in his pocket and Mats is taking his own phone out with an eyeroll, meeting Marco’s gaze and muttering, “Thomas.”

Mats sends off a reply in his best captain tone that Fips must be getting slightly offended by, and puts his phone away again, falling back into conversation with Lukas and Kuba.  However Marco’s phone is still vibrating insistently so he pulls it out.

_Incoming Call: Mario_

He pulls a face at Auba who is looking at him wearily and goes into Mats’ empty kitchen. 

“Hi Mario.”

“Marco---,” Mario slurs, “I just heard the news about Kloppo.  Is it true?”

“Yes, of course it’s true.  Wait, are you drunk?  Don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

“It’s the day after tomorrow and it’s not like I’ll play anyway.  Guardiola wouldn’t start me if I sucked his dick so who the fuck cares what condition I’m in?”

“The Mario I know who fights his hardest to be in top form at all times.” Marco tries not to let his inexplicable annoyance show in his tone.

“He’s gone and replaced by me, the useless and fat player I am.”

“In no way are you fat, that’s crazy.  Also, we’ve had the conversation about you being useless before, you’re not, I thought you used to believe everything I said to you?”

“You were lying to me to make me feel better.”

“When have I ever lied to you?!” Marco exclaims and his voice must be getting louder because Mats bursts into the kitchen, flanked by Auba, Roman and Heinrikh who all look agitated.

“What’s going on?” Mats asks, loud enough for Mario to hear him because he stops his incomprehensible babbling and falls scarily quiet.  “It’s Mario, isn’t it?” Mats asks again, louder now, and plucks Marco’s phone straight out of his hands before Marco can even try and put it out of his reach, “Götze? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Marco avoids the knowing looks while Mats tries to reason with Mario, telling him that he’s got to try and make the best of the situation with an effortless bluntness Marco could only dream of.  Judging by Mats’ responses, Mario is trying to put up a fight, but then he must say something completely unexpected because he manages to cut off Mats Hummels mid-sentence.

“Okay, Mario.” Mats says quietly before passing the phone back to Marco and leaving.  Auba tries to hang back but Mats must say something to him because he leaves too, and suddenly everything is silent, the only noise Mario’s faint sobs echoing through the phone line.

“Are you okay?” Marco’s voice is soft because he just can’t help himself whenever it comes to Mario.  The younger one so rarely showed emotion back when they were together, but whenever he did, he became so vulnerable Marco always took it upon himself to protect him.

“Everything’s changed,” Mario sobs, “I hate it so much, I wish time would just slow down or just fucking stop altogether because everyone’s getting better and I feel like I’m just stuck here or probably even getting worse, I can see it in their faces, David, Thomas, Manu, Jerome, they all look at me with so much _pity_ and I can’t fucking stand it and now Kloppo isn’t even going to be at Dortmund and everything’s changing over there and from the way Watzke was speaking it’s like they’re preparing to write over everything he’s done and every player he’s coached that isn’t there, like they’ll write me out of Dortmund’s history when they know full well I’m never going to fucking write myself into Bayern’s.”

“Calm down,” Marco says softly, “they don’t know that.  You’re going to be fantastic next season and you’ll have forgotten all about this little dip in form.  Guardiola isn’t brain-dead, he’s won so much shit that he has to realise your value to the team and if he doesn’t then he doesn’t deserve you because you’re fantastic and you should believe it.”

Mario doesn’t respond but his sobs do subside, so Marco’s sure he’s said something to help him.

“Drink some water and go to bed.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Mario is still silent, but Marco can hear the running of a tap and gentle footsteps across the floor.  It’s so different to their last interaction, their conversations having turned into a series of contrasting experiences that makes Marco’s head spin when he looks back on them, but he’s just glad Mario is listening to him and not arguing.

“Marco?” Mario says, voice so quiet Marco can barely hear it, “I’m sorry about our fight.”

“It’s nothing.  Go to sleep now.”

“Do you forgive me?” If the hopelessness in Mario’s voice was coming from Marco, he’d chastise himself for being pathetic, but it just hurts when it’s Mario’s voice. 

“I always forgive you.”

Mario makes a contented noise and tells him goodnight before hanging up. Marco can only hope he’s listened to him and gone to bed.  When he enters back into the living room, Mats and Auba stand up immediately.

“Can you take me home Auba?”

Auba smiles and nods as Marco waves goodbye to the team who all look worried about him.  It’s only a short drive back to Marco’s place, but he’s exhausted and doesn’t want to be mobbed by fans.  Auba must sense how tired he is because he only makes small talk, doesn’t try to ask Marco about what Mario wanted.  Maybe Mats has already told him.

“It’ll be okay.” He says eventually.  Marco only raises an eyebrow, “when Kloppo goes.”

“I hope so.”

When he gets home, he contemplates taking a leaf out of Mario’s book and getting hammered but decides he can’t be fucked to deal with the hangover in the morning.  He falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes up, he’s somehow not surprised to see several panicked texts from Mario.

 **Mario:** fuck i called you last night?

 **Mario:** i hope we didn’t fight

 **Mario:** can you call me when you wake up please

Marco’s still half asleep when his fingers press the call icon on Mario’s contact.  He’s greeted by a groan of such typical ‘hung-over’ Mario fashion Marco has to laugh, earning himself another whine of indignation from the younger one.

“Good morning to you too.” He says.

“Fuck off,” Mario says, not maliciously, “I’m guessing by your laughter we didn’t fight last night.”

“Well, we almost did but Mats heard and stopped us.  You said something to him that actually made him shut up, which I’ve been meaning to ask you about, but then by the time he handed you back to me you were upset but then you calmed down again.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.  Your drunken antics are legendary in this team already.”

He can almost see the blush on Mario’s face when he scoffs and tries to protest, but Marco has way too many stories he could pull out on him and lets Mario know that fact.

“I don’t know what I said to Mats to get him to shut up either, but I wish I did because I don’t think anyone bar Fips, Jogi or Kloppo has ever managed to actually do that successfully.”

“You’re ground-breaking,” Marco remarks, sending both of them into fits of giggles and it’s giving Marco déjà vu because it’s so _easy,_ but he knows not to trust that feeling when it comes to Mario.  It’s only ever lured him into a false sense of security that makes the house of cards that is his and Mario’s friendship crash down twice as fast.  “Then you started talking about our fight and apologising for it.”

“I-yeah.  I don’t remember but I meant it.  I’d been wanting to apologise to you from the second the door shut behind you.”

“I think I forgave you the moment the door shut behind me even though I tried to tell myself I was mad at you.”

“Let’s try not to get into an argument when we see each other for the semi-final next week.”

“You got yourself a deal.”

☆

The game against Bayern is such a mess, Dortmund looking like they’re going to be eliminated when Lewy scores within the first half hour but then Auba levels near the end of normal time.  It’s weird, seeing the Dortmund fans try and assemble their own Yellow Wall in the Allianz, but their support is everything to him.  Mario comes on for Robben not long after Auba’s goal, face set in something like determination and Marco doesn’t want to lose, but if they do, only wants to lose through a piece of individual brilliance from Mario.

The minutes tick by and it’s obvious neither team will make the breakthrough, they might as well just stop the game and play the penalties right there and then, but when the whistle blows for penalties and Mats loses the flip, meaning they’ll be shooting in front of the Bayern fans, Marco knows.

He knows that they’re going to win.

He watches as Philipp and Xabi miss either side of Ilkay scoring, knows that they’re really in front when Kehli puts his in too, but then Marco feels his knees go weak and Marcel’s arm tighten around his shoulders, because Mario is walking up to the penalty spot.

Mitchell saves his shot.

Watching Mario curse himself as he walks back to his team hurts Marco so much he has to turn away.

Manu saves Mats’ penalty, but then his own hits the crossbar.

Behind them, the Dortmund fans are ecstatic.  In front of them, the Bayern fans are devastated.  His team are in a huddle and shouting, Kloppo is hugging his staff, yet Marco’s eyes don’t miss Guardiola almost blank Mario.

Bayern’s team leave the field as soon as they can, but Dortmund stay out there for ages riling up their fans who are still singing and waving their flags.  Marco remembers the days when he would be in the crowd with his dad and both of them would’ve celebrated a win against Bayern all the way home to his mother’s smiling face and his sisters ruffling his hair.

Kloppo finds him then and tells him that Mario is waiting for him and Marco doesn’t wait any longer, waving one last goodbye at the fans before entering the tunnel.  Sure enough, Mario is standing outside the Dortmund dressing room, shirt in hand.  He tries to smile but it’s hollow and Marco doesn’t think twice about pulling him for a hug.

“You played well.  Mitchell just got it right, it wasn’t a bad penalty.” He tries to say but Mario cuts him off,

“It was an awful penalty, it was more obvious where I was going to place it than it was the Titanic was going to sink when it struck that iceberg, but I don’t want to talk about me.  Pep’s done that enough already.  Let’s talk about you, and how brilliant you were out there.  I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks, Mario.  Congratulations on winning the Bundesliga.”

“You’re going to make the Europa League after being dead last a couple of months ago.  That’s more impressive.”

“It was Kloppo saying he was going to leave that inspired us.  I’ll miss him.”

“Me too.  Do you know where he’s going?”

“Ask him yourself,” Marco replies as Kloppo finally comes through the tunnel beaming, yet he still pulls Mario in for a sympathetic hug that has Marco unable to resist the teacher’s pet comments.  Kloppo falls into a conversation with Mario, answering his question that he doesn’t know where he’s going to go yet, although he’s definitely not retiring as a football manager, congratulating Mario on his victories in the Bundesliga. 

“I’ll leave you be,” Kloppo says eventually, heading inside the dressing room after one last hug with Mario.

“I almost forgot!” Mario exclaims, holding out his shirt.  “I know we’ve swapped shirts before, but I wondered if you’d like to do it again?” He looks worried, as if he thinks that Marco might actually say no.  Marco pulls off his shirt and smirks to himself at the way Mario’s eyes fall across his abs, before fighting not to feel wistful at the sight of Mario pulling his shirt on.

“Yellow always suited you.”

“You should wear mine.”

“I’d rather die than wear red,” Marco jokes, hanging the shirt around his neck, “I’ll wear it like this.”

“That reminds me, what did you do with the collage I gave you before I left Dortmund?” Mario asks, and Marco’s stomach drops like a stone.  He never hung it up on his wall, it’s still in his guest bedroom gathering dust, only brought out when guests stay over and ask him what it is.  But he can’t tell Mario that, not when he looks so earnest, because Marco knew back then how much effort Mario had put into it and if he told him it’s not even anywhere noticeable he’s probably be really upset.

“It’s on my wall.” He lies, a good enough answer to deflect suspicion but vague enough to avoid him stammering out something Mario could see straight through.  He makes a mental note to hang it up as soon he gets back home.  Luckily Mario seems to believe him and gives him another smile, looking less disappointed than he did earlier.

“When do you go back?”

“Overnight train back home.” Mario looks slightly sad at this, lamenting that he wanted to invite Marco over to his flat, so they could get drunk and catch up, and Marco laughs, promises that they’ll manage it at some point over the summer, that Mario should watch his alcohol intake because he doesn’t want him to gain a reputation as an alcoholic.  Mario is giggling the whole damn time and Marco is still so weak for him, thanks the 375 miles between them normally for enabling him to escape it most of the time until Guardiola’s voice booms out across the room,

“Götze get in the changing room now!  You’ve been doing too much chatting to justify your absolutely shit performance today, get over here so I can do our briefing and we can all go home!”

Mario looks terrified as he hugs Marco quickly goodbye and heads over to the home dressing room, Marco’s name and number black and visible against the yellow material of the Dortmund shirt and Marco wonders how the hell Mario wants to put up with that, wants to scream at Guardiola for what he’s done to Mario, wants to follow Mario into the dressing room.  Instead he just stands there, heart stumbling as Mario glances back as he enters the dressing room.

Inside Marco’s own dressing room, the celebrations have only just started with Auba having instigated a dance off that Mats and Ilkay are trying way too hard to get Kloppo to join in with.  He does, eventually, do one solitary move that has a cheer roll through the room, before dramatically exclaiming that he’s retired from dancing and to let the younger ones to take his place.

They sing the fans’ songs badly all the way back to the bus, Marco ending up carrying Auba on his shoulders while Lukasz conducts the singing, arms flailing so extravagantly he almost hits a cameraman in the face.  The man looks furious, even more so when the whole team laugh wildly at his expense.

(None of them notice Mario watching them and silently wishing he was the one Marco had on his shoulders.)

The collage looks beautiful hanging above his television.  Mario's face smiles back at him every time he steps into his living room.

☆

They don’t win the cup and the journey back to Dortmund from Berlin is silent, the complete opposite from the singing that lasted late into the night coming back from Munich.  They get back even later from Berlin, early into the hours of Marco’s birthday.  He’s twenty-six, but it’s so difficult to accept the congratulations from all his teammates because Kloppo is going to call them all into Brackel later that day and he knows what is going to happen.

It’s one of the worst birthdays of Marco’s life, second only to his twenty-third, two days after Mario left him and two days after his heart broke.  Kloppo has arranged a party and it’s so hard to pretend to be happy when he’s petrified, Kloppo’s been here longer than he has, almost as long as Mats has, and it’s only when Kloppo finishes his final speech and is going around and hugging each member of the team does Marco realise they’ve unveiled Thomas Tuchel as the new manager.

Marco thinks Kloppo’s gone when Thomas comes and starts speaking to everyone, learning names and languages, the centre of attention in a circle Marco can’t bear to join.  He’s about to slip away when Kloppo appears in front of him, taking his arm gently and pulling him along towards the exit.

“Come on, kid.”

Marco wants to jokingly protest that he’s definitely not a kid anymore, that he’s twenty-six years old goddamnit, but he’s got a lump in his throat and he can see that Kloppo is blinking back tears which is a sight so foreign to him he doesn’t end up saying anything at all.  Kloppo takes him out of the room, the party’s noise fading when the door shuts behind them.

“You’ll be captain one day.”

Marco smiles at that, it’s been his dream to captain his club since he was a kid who used to watch the fans’ flags of their ground with awe, felt the drums in his bones. 

“I expect a message when you get it.”

“Of course.” Marco grins.

“I’ll miss this place.  I’ll miss all the players, Mats, Auba, Roman, and don’t go telling everyone this because don’t think I didn’t notice all the teacher’s pet comments they used to say about Mario, but I’ll miss you most.”

Marco shakes his head and accepts the hug Kloppo gives him. 

“Thank you,” he gets out and it’s nowhere near enough to tell him exactly how much he’s done for him, but from the strengthen of Kloppo’s grip on his shoulders means he knows he understands.  “You’ve been the best manager I’ve ever had,” Marco wipes his eyes and chuckles when he notices Kloppo doing the same, “and I know loads of them in there would agree.”

“I tried my best.  I don’t often have regrets, but I do have one from here.  I’ll regret not winning anything with you.”

“Are you trying to make me cry?” Marco says, wiping at his eyes again.  Kloppo just laughs, his loud laugh that always seemed to be around the corner.  It hits Marco that he doesn’t know when the next time he’ll hear it again is.

“I don't know when I'll see you again but I think I should go.” Kloppo says eventually, and Marco can’t resist throwing himself into his arms like a small child, clinging onto him like he can’t bear to let go.

“Are you going to say one last goodbye?”

“No.  I’ve done that already.  I’ll just go out of that door,” Kloppo nods in the general direction, “I just wanted to speak to you alone first.” Marco nods. “One last thing.  Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always knew there was something going on between you and Mario and when I found you that night before Christmas I knew immediately it had something to do with him.  But after I saw the two of you a couple of weeks ago… it was so obvious he loves you.  I think he always has, from the moment you two met.”

Marco can’t find anything to say.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything to defend yourself.  I never mentioned it because I didn’t want you feeling awkward or feeling like you had to separate yourself from him but – what you two had was special.  I know you haven’t forgotten it, and I know he hasn’t either.”

Kloppo gives him one last hug and then he’s gone, he’s out of the doors before Marco has chance to ask him anything else.  Auba comes out then, mumbles “he’s gone?” and looks unsurprised when Marco nods, pulling him back into the room and forcing him to introduce himself to Tuchel.

Bayern release some photos from their end of season party.  Mario looks downcast in every single one.

☆

They don’t get chance to see each other and get drunk in Mario’s flat, but they spend the whole summer texting more often then they have since Mario left.  Most of it’s mundane, Marco will tell Mario what Tuchel’s like while Mario tells him stories of all the stuff Thomas gets up to.

It’s only a week until the beginning of the new Bundesliga season when Mario finally mentions Guardiola.

 **Mario:** guess what!!!

 **Marco:** what

 **Mario:** no guess

 **Marco:** dickhead what is it

 **Mario:** guardiola again proved that i am his favourite player

 **Mario:** the compliments he gives me make my heart truly swell

 **Mario:** compliments such as

 **Mario:** “you’ll never start for this team again if you don’t pick up your game”

 **Mario:** “better start following all the members of the reserves on instagram because you’ll be playing with them at this rate”

 **Mario:** his love for me is unparalleled, kloppo could never

Mario often did that through messages, joke around and use meme formats to hide what he was truly feeling.  Marco could tell, even through the self-depreciating jokes that Mario was hurt, and Marco hated it, hated seeing Mario’s confidence deteriorate, hated himself that he never screamed all those insults at Guardiola back in May.

 **Marco:** i’m sorry

 **Marco:** does he do it to anyone else?

 **Mario:** no

 **Mario:** it’s been two years and he still scapegoats me

 **Marco:** what a cunt

 **Marco:** if i was there i’d give him a piece of my mind

 **Marco:** and a piece of my first while i’m at it

 **Mario:** thanks

 **Mario:** it’s scary

 **Mario:** i don’t think i have much longer here

 **Marco:** at bayern?

 **Mario:** yeah

 **Mario:** fabian and the rest of the team managed to convince them to not loan me out

 **Mario:** it just hurts

 **Mario:** this was my dream and i can’t see it turning itself around

 **Marco:** i’m sorry

 **Marco:** i wish there was something i could do to help

 **Mario:** you are by just listening to my stupid problems

 **Marco:** they’re not stupid

 **Mario:** god i miss you so much

 **Mario:** i wish you were here

(He doesn’t tell Marco that he actually means ‘I wish I was there.’)

 **Mario:** anyway

 **Mario:** how’s tuchel? mats? the rest?

 **Marco:** mats is good.  so’s the rest of the team

 **Marco:** hopefully we’ll have a better first half of the season

 **Marco:** auba chucked ice from the ice bath down erik’s back today

 **Marco:** his squeal was art

 **Marco:** tuchel is good

 **Marco:** it’s just hard to adjust because kloppo’s all i’ve ever known

 **Mario:** i’m sure you’ll be fine

 **Marco:** i hope so

 **Mario:** you’re incredible marco you’ll be brilliant

 **Mario:** i believe in you

 **Mario:** auba chucking ice down erik’s back haha poor kid

 **Mario:** that used to be us teasing the younger teammates

 **Marco:** you were the younger teammates

 **Mario:** fuck off

 **Marco:** you’re so sweet

 **Mario:** i hate you

 **Marco:** sure

 **Mario:** gotta go before pep comes to kill me

 **Mario:** bye dickhead

 **Marco:** bye!!!

 **Mario:** <3

Despite Marco's concerns, Dortmund open the season brilliantly.  They're together, composed, and it's five games before they score less than three.  They put four past Gladbach and Ingolstadt, Marco opening the scoring that bears a scary reminiscence to 2012.  Bayern keep right on their toes though and when they draw with Leverkusen, jokes fly around the locker room about the title being won already. Marco follows Mario's season, celebrates the goal he scores against Olympiakos and can't even bring himself to be suspicious when Guardiola praises him in the post-match interviews.  But every time Marco sees him wearing _red,_ he can't help but think of Mario's words, his questions of whether or not Dortmund would have him back.  He tries not to think about the possibility.

They're back at the Allianz by early October, the red glow of the stadium a stark contrast to the darkening Munich sky.  Marco doesn't start, watches his team (and Mario) from the bench, watches Dortmund's defence get torn apart by Thomas.  Auba gets one back and they have a glimmer of hope that Tuchel emphasises during half time, but almost immediately after they come back out Lewy scores and the game falls apart by that point.  There's such a disparity in their quality that Marco drowns out the begrudging comments from his teammates when Mario scores with cheers and isn't even ashamed at the shocked looks he receives.  He gets subbed on later, Mario smiling at him and suddenly the pain of the certain loss melts away and he knows he'd give up any potential titles just to have Mario back. He's beautiful, glimmering under the red-tinged floodlights and even though he's drowning in red, Marco wants to forget the game and just watch him forever.

He's the first one Marco finds at the end of the match, throwing his arms around him and holding him there like he doesn’t want to ever let go.  He goes around the other players, Thomas, Jerome, Lewy, congratulating them and accepting whatever they have to say to him, but he doesn’t let Mario out of his sight for more than a minute and stays within earshot of him at all times.  He even forces himself to hug Alaba briefly, but he still can’t look him in the eye after the thoughts he had seeing him and Mario celebrate Mario’s goal together.

They leave the pitch together, Mario waving at some of the Bayern fans chanting his name.  Lewy asked Marco for his shirt, which Marco gave to him, reasoning that Mario already had enough Dortmund shirts with his name on the back to last him a lifetime.  Yet the moment they disappear into the dark bowels of the arena, Mario’s expression turns slightly sad.  Marco doesn’t speak, doesn’t know what he could say to ease the obvious doubt racing through Mario’s mind, so places his arms around Mario’s shoulders and pulls him into his space.

His scent is so familiar it almost knocks Marco straight out.

“I enjoyed that,” Mario says eventually, voice muffled into Marco’s chest, “I had to, given that’s probably the last time I’ll kick a football in a game for more than twenty minutes for the next three months.”

“I saw what Guardiola said about you after the Champions League game.” Marco says, noting how trivial it sounds compared to the weight of Mario’s admission.

“That was the nicest thing he’s said about me since my first season, Mar.  It hasn’t changed anything.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not here.  What about when we go to Ireland?”

“Well, I’m meant to be staying in Munich for the International Break and you still haven’t shown me where you live, and I believe you owe me a ‘getting drunk in your apartment,’ so,” Marco feels his smirk melt into a genuine smile when he sees Mario’s eyes light up, all traces of his earlier low mood vanished for now.

“Did Dortmund book you into a hotel?”

“I think they were going to force me into sharing with Mats.”

Mario mock-shudders at the thought, “you’re coming with me.  Meet me in the car park in thirty.”

Munich is a beautiful city, lit up against the October night, rain pattering gently against the windows of Mario’s car, yet Marco barely pays it a second glance as he unabashedly stares at Mario.  The younger one catches him, yet Marco can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed, telling him he missed him and relishing in the adorable giggle Mario releases in response.  Mats, of course, gave him a comment about protection that earned him a slap when Marco told him he was going over to Mario’s place, but Marco could tell the captain was secretly delighted that the two of them had put their well-documented fight behind them (and that he’d get the hotel room all to himself, he remarked with a malicious smirk.  Marco dreads to think what he meant by that.)

Mario’s apartment block is slightly out of the city centre and the red glow of Munich still filters through the windows, but the flat is set up so identically Marco could’ve believed he was back in Dortmund and nothing had ever changed.  Mario takes him through the flat into the guest bedroom that also apparently doubled as Fabian’s room when he was here, instructing Marco to make himself at home and that they’ll get drunk on the balcony, never mind the rain.

Marco changes quickly and hears the shower going next door, smiling as his memories of Mario’s incredibly long showers resurface.  He goes to the window, watches as raindrops slide down over the glass and distort his view of the Munich skyline with the Allianz still glowing scarlet in the distance, reminding the city of their win.  The hurt of the loss has dulled to an ache so quickly it’s as if it had happened to another team, but Marco still tries not to focus on the crimson spreading its shadow across the city.

It’s so hard to believe that it’s been over two years since Mario moved here and broke Marco’s heart.  As his eyes drift across the city his mind wanders to what might have been if he’d told Mario he loved him or if he’d somehow got him to stay.  His words to Kloppo about how impossible that was trying to get Mario to stay echo in his mind, but Marco’s heart feels ready to jump out of his skin and lay itself down in front of the younger one when Mario’s hand rests lightly on the small of Marco’s back.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mario remarks, the lights of Munich reflecting in his eyes like fireworks and suddenly Marco finds breathing is just that much harder.

“Yeah.” Marco breathes.  His eyes aren’t looking at the city.

“Did you hear Kloppo got the new job at Liverpool?”

“Yeah.” He's happy for his old coach but he can't deny or hide how much he misses him.  Tuchel is pleasant enough, and they're in a much better place than they were at this point in the season last year, but Marco can't help but miss the coach who developed him and eventually became like a second father.  He's not feeling very talkative because he can feel something in the air that tells him Mario isn't going to hold back when he confesses everything and Marco needs to prepare himself for hearing about all the months of Mario's life he missed.

Mario almost chucks the covers of the chairs right over the balcony as he scrambles to get them off quickly, refusing Marco’s offers of help.  They sit down, cool rain falling and messing up their hair as they drink, wind rippling over their skin and Marco would be perfectly content to stay out there forever in silence, but Mario takes another long swig of his beer in what Marco assumes must be some pathetic attempt at Dutch courage before he starts talking.

“I picked this place because it reminded me of my flat in Dortmund,” Marco isn’t surprised by this, the only difference being the red of the much larger city compared to the soft yellow of his ( _their_ ) home, “because I didn’t want to leave it all behind.  On my first day, Pep came over to me and gave me a hug, telling me that he could hardly wait for me to recover and start playing under him.  Fips, Thomas, Manu and Joshua came to welcome me, and Thomas made a joke about winning my first Bundesliga title in the right kit that just made me think of you and how you’ve still never won it, but then they brought David to meet me and we just hit it off right away.  On my first full training session he paired up with me and suddenly everyone started talking about how we had a telepathic connection on the pitch and waxed lyrical about how we were going to create so many goals for them, but I hated it because the only one I ever wanted to be spoken about in that regard with was you.” Mario continues talking as Marco starts feeling the familiar thrum of alcohol in his veins as he listens.  “Then the game against you happened and I cried the whole way home.  Seeing the look on your face when that goal went in was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever had,” Mario pauses, swallowing like he’s got something else to say but then decides against it, “I turned around and you looked so defeated I wanted to run down the pitch and score an own goal.”

“Pep would’ve killed you.”

“I wouldn’t have cared.”

They’re silent for a few minutes, the only noise the tapping off the raindrops on the glass of Mario’s apartment block, and the floor of the balcony.  Marco shivers inadvertently, enough for Mario to notice and offer to go back inside, but Marco refuses.  Outside, in the Munich rain on Mario’s balcony is the only place intimate enough for the two of them to have this conversation.

“It all felt like it was going right and then we won the Bundesliga and Thomas made the same joke in front of all the cameras and I don’t know if you saw it, but I felt terrible.  Then the game against Armenia…” Mario trails off and looks at him.

“I watched you win it, you can talk about it.”

“I wanted to kill the defender.  I also would’ve swapped places with you in a heartbeat if I could’ve.”

“You know I wouldn’t have let you.  We might not have won if it wasn’t for you being there.  Messi might’ve scored that free kick.”

“Your shirt smelled of you and I sat with it in my arms all the way through the tactical right before the final.  Jogi was about to scream at me but then he saw the name and he softened?  We spoke about you a lot.  After the final, we wrapped the trophy in your shirt and just let it sit there for a while.”

“Thank you.” Marco chokes out.

“Then we came back to Germany and things started to fall apart.  I don’t know what happened but suddenly Pep was avoiding me and only stopping to say something negative about me.  My form started declining and I was watching you and Auba and you looked so down.  I watched that game when you dropped to the bottom of the table.  You looked so stunned I had to turn the TV off because it hurt so much seeing you like that and seeing _him_ being the one to comfort you.”

“He’s a good friend.  You left.”

“I know,” Mario winces, “and my jealousy was petty and you didn’t deserve it but I couldn’t help it.”

“I felt the same about you and Alaba.”

“I know.  He did, too, he asked me about why you always glared at him like you wanted to kill him.  I just said it was a familiar look to those you were facing off against, but I still don’t know if he believed me.”

Marco opens another beer and downs it to try and forget about the thought of Mario and Alaba discussing him.

“I watched Revierderby.” Mario admits and suddenly his eyes are on the floor, not drifting between Marco and Munich like they have done throughout the conversation, “or I watched it until Auba scored.  I saw that celebration and I couldn’t watch it anymore.”

“Thomas told me you didn’t like it.”

“I thought it was funny, but I kept thinking that you’d moved on and I didn’t mean anything to you.”

“You have meant so much to me since the day we first met.” Marco says, not even bothering to admonish himself for how cheesy he sounds. “You’d get on with Auba too.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“He doesn’t but if you guys got to know each other he would.  He’s not the type to hold grudges.”

“He seems friendly.”

“He was my best friend at Dortmund after you left.”

Mario nods and seems to accept this, allowing the dust to settle over their jealousy before he continues.

“It was an accident but that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it.” Mario blurts out.

“What?”

“The kiss during the Georgia game.”

Marco’s throat dries up.

“I was so proud of you for scoring after everything you’d been through and I couldn’t help it.  Like I said, I wanted to apologise to you the moment you left after we fought.  Then we saw each other in the semi final and Pep fucking annihilated me afterwards, he let us go and then called me back and screamed at me for about half an hour at how useless I was, how he’d subbed me on to score the winner and the highlight of my game was missing a penalty.”

Marco expected this, but what Mario says next catches him off guard.

“Kloppo came to see me.” Marco’s eyes snap up to meet Mario’s which are now focused back on him. “He went from the farewell party straight down to Munich and we sat out here and he told me everything about that night back before Christmas.  I’ve been meaning to discuss it with you properly ever since.”

“Mario,” Marco protests weakly.

“You should’ve called me.  I would’ve come up to see you if you’d asked.” It’s not until Mario says this that Marco realises the full extent of their miscommunication.  _God,_ he’s a fucking idiot.  “Kloppo told me you looked like you’d barely escaped death or something.  I knew that had happened, but I had no clue that it was about me.”

Mario’s words ring through his head, mixed with the look of concern in his glimmering eyes, and through a combination of the alcohol and the heaviness of the moment gives Marco a headache, so he listens to Mario recount the rest of his interactions with Guardiola with barely any input at all.  The rain is falling heavier now, messing up Mario’s hair and making some of it fall into his eyes and he’s stupidly attractive and he’s still _looking_ at him, and Marco wants to kiss him so badly.

“Mario?” Marco hears someone say and they snap upright instantly, “what the fuck are you doing out here, you’ll catch a cold—oh.  Hi Marco.” It’s _Fabian_ , who Marco hasn’t seen in years, holding hands with a girl who is looking between Mario’s older brother and the two of them, soaked on the balcony, with the faintest blush forming on her cheeks.  “This is Annika, I—do you want us to go over to her house?”

Mario nods and Marco watches Fabian say something to Annika who leads him out, the front door closing behind them with a slam. 

“Fab’s right,” Mario murmurs, “we should go inside.”

“Mario,” Marco calls him back, “I've always regretted not asking you what you thought was going to happen to us the night you told me you were going to Bayern.”

Mario turns to him and Marco can't take his eyes off a raindrop that rolls down his face, “I've always regretted that you didn't ask me that too.”

Marco barely sleeps that night.  He can’t get thoughts of Mario’s eyes in the rain, his hair falling over his face, that was tinged with the tiny red blotches when he talked about Marco and Auba.  Mario, who’s asleep in the next room, and Marco wants nothing more than to go and climb in next to him.

Dawn comes soon enough, grey light poking through the curtains.  The day is overcast as Mario takes him around Munich, the two of them drinking the smallest of beers as they take in the Oktoberfest crowd.  They’re due to meet up with the National Team that evening and fly to Ireland, so they leave the city and head back to Mario’s flat in plenty of time, Marco snorting in unsurprise when Mario abashedly admits he hasn’t even started packing yet.

Their performance against Ireland is abysmal and they lose 1-0, Jogi keeping them behind to rant at their performance for almost two hours.  The media is all over them, sensationalising their loss as the beginning of a capitulation for _Die Mannschaft,_ but it’s what they say about Mario that riles Marco up the most.  They tear him down, call him useless and overweight, and Marco wants nothing more than to go to BILD’s head office and punch the CEO straight in the face.  The comments are reflecting on Mario, who refuses to go down to dinner and only eats two bites of the food Marco sneaks upstairs to him (they’re back rooming together), but it all gets worse the next day when photos of the two of them at Oktoberfest emerge and the media is so quick to jump on the bandwagon, criticising Mario for being ‘lazy’ and not training.  Mario doesn’t play against Georgia and Marco misses him, still in disbelief at Jogi not noticing the fact that the two of them play better together.  The team bonding sessions in the evenings get wilder and Jonas’ prediction earlier in the year actually comes true when Jogi brings out a parachute (Marco doesn’t know how the hell their coach could possibly think it was a good idea, what with the likes of Thomas and Jerome in the squad) but they all end up spinning Jonas around until the man is breathless, dizzy, and very much flushed in the face.

They return to Germany and Mario calls him every day after training to tell him all about the latest insults Guardiola and the president have hurled at him.  They continue like this for a while until one night in early December, Dortmund dusted in a beautiful layer of snow, Marco realises that Mario hasn’t called.  He’s relieved, hoping that means nothing negative was said to Mario to prompt him to call (although he does miss his voice).  He’s eating dinner, eyes watching the snowflakes settle on the road outside when his phone buzzes and his eyes widen when he sees who the message is from.

 **Unknown:** Hi Marco, I got your number from Mario’s phone

 **Unknown:** It’s Fabian

 **Marco:** hi

 **Fabian:** Are you free right now?

 **Marco:** yes i’m just eating dinner

 **Fabian:** Is it okay if I call you?

 **Marco:** yes

 **Marco:** what’s happened

 **Marco:** is mario okay

Fabian doesn’t text a response, just calls him and Marco answers straight away.  He can hear footsteps, and laughing, and wind howling in the background and figures Fabian must not be in their apartment.

“Is he okay?” Marco asks.

“Physically, yes.  I mean, he’s not sick or anything.” Fabian sounds tentative and Marco is suddenly terrified, his brain running wild through an endless list of possibilities. “It’s just – he says you always go to Dubai every year with your family?”

“Yeah.  They’re not going this year, but I still will.  I need to get out of the cold.”

“Good.  I was wondering, the grandparents are away for Christmas this year so we’re not all going to Memmingen, I was thinking of travelling to Dubai with him.  If you’re there at the same time, could you surprise him?  He’s been really down recently, he only ever brightens up when he’s speaking to you, so I think it’d do him really good to see you.”

“Of course.  I’m flying out on the 21st.”

“I’ll let you know when we arrive.  Thank you, Marco.  I’m really worried about him.”

“Me too.” Marco sighs, “I hope he knows that.”

“I think he does.”

Marco doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays silent until Fabian says goodbye and the line goes dead with a click.  He thinks of Mario all the way in Munich, dreads to wonder what the constant negativity is doing to him and his sudden inability to ignore the words of the media.

They beat both Wolfsburg and Frankfurt before they lose to Köln in the last minute of the game.  The fans look bleak and Marco hates the disappointment in Auba’s eyes when he hugs him in the dressing room.  They’re flying to Dubai together where Auba will hang out with some of his national teammates while Marco tries to hunt down Mario.  He hates the idea of the two of them seeing each other though, their tension around the other causing them not to coexist well in Marco’s thoughts.

Their flight is the next day and they’re in Dubai after a few hours.  Auba’s Gabon teammates all rush to meet him and they’re all lovely to Marco but it’s not long before they’ve rushed Auba off to catch up with him properly and Marco is alone on the beach.  He sits on the sand and watches the sea roll in and out, the waves splashing gently, so relaxed he almost misses his phone buzz.

 **Fabian:** have you arrived yet

 **Marco:** yeah i’m on the beach

 **Fabian:** if you want to see him we’re in villa 245

 **Marco:** on my way

He hurries back to the villas and finds that Mario’s is only across the courtyard from his.  Slinging a backpack filled with extra clothes and a towel over his shoulder, he crosses the cobblestones only for the door to the villa to open before he's even knocked.  Fabian answers, a smile on his face when he pulls Marco in for a hug, before putting his arms around the shoulders of a woman Marco eventually places as Annika from the night in Munich.

“He’s in there,” Fabian whispers, “surprise him.”

He opens the door almost silently and has to turn around instantly to suppress his giggles when he sees Mario playing FIFA.  However at second glance he does a double take and his amusement instantly fades because Mario is playing at Dortmund and is about to score with the character Marco.  When he does and breathes out, Marco speaks up.

“Shouldn’t you be outside and enjoying the sunshine instead of holed up in here?”

Mario’s reaction is hilarious as he almost jumps out of his own skin at Marco’s voice.  He turns, pauses the game and within three steps he’s in Marco’s arms, hugging him and occupying all of Marco’s space –Marco wouldn’t have it any other way; other than the fact Mario feels a lot thinner in his arms than he used to and dark circles underline his eyes.

“Hey,” Mario says and Marco can’t stop the huge smile appearing on his lips.

“Hey yourself.  So, beach?  I’m sure Fabian and Annika would appreciate the time alone.” Marco raises his eyebrows and winks in a way that makes Mario visibly cringe.

“That’s my brother you’re talking about.  But I’m down to go to the beach.  Wait here.” Mario exits the game and he’s gone into his bedroom, emerging only minutes later in swimming shorts and a loose t-shirt.  His skin is glowing a golden tan already and Marco wishes that things were like they were years ago and that he could cover it with kisses.

“How long have you been here?” Marco asks to distract himself.

“I got here yesterday.  How did you know I was here?”

“I set this up with Fabian to surprise you.” Marco holds open the gate leading to the beach, “my family decided not to come this year.  I flew in with Auba.”

“Auba, yes of course." Mario says awkwardly, "It's a shame your family isn't here. I’d have loved to have seen Nico.”

“He’d love to see you too.  He still talks about you all the time from the one time you met and you taught him exactly how to confuse me so he could nutmeg me.  Mel and Yvonne still haven’t let me live that down, so fuck you, by the way.”

“You deserve to be ridiculed, you got sent back to Gladbach by a three year old!”

“Who had help from the one person who knows all my weak points.  He still hero worships you.”

“One of very few.” Mario deadpans and the sun must’ve disappeared behind a cloud because it’s suddenly very cold and the wash of the sea on the shore malicious instead of calming.  It doesn’t last, within a blink of an eye the sun is back out, splashing over Marco’s skin, but he could never miss the dejection in Mario’s voice.

“No self-depreciation,” Marco says firmly, pulling off his own shirt and entering the water before Mario can protest, “are you joining me?”

Mario smiles, rids himself of his own shirt and Marco has to distract himself with the large wave crashing into the shore to keep from staring at him.  Mario comes over to him, water spraying into his hair and making it fall over his face like it did that day in the Munich rain, but for all the dejection written on his face five minutes ago he’s beaming at Marco and Marco couldn’t be happier to have him back.  The sun beats down on them as he splashes Mario and squeals as Mario retaliates, cold water washing over his skin and he hasn’t been this carefree in a long time.

“Marco!” Someone yells and when Marco turns to the shore, he sees Auba standing there.  Mario’s face floods white and he tries to escape, but Marco grabs onto him, pulls him towards his teammate.  “Hi, Mario.” Auba smiles when the two of them reach the sand.

“Hi,” Mario says, and Marco hopes to God Auba can’t hear the tension in his voice, prays this isn’t the precursor to the actual occurrence of the fight that almost blew over a year ago.

 “I’m going out with my teammates to one of the nightclubs.  Both of you should come.  We’ll meet you there.”

Marco can hear the declination on the tip of Mario’s tongue, so he jumps in before he can say anything.  “We’d love to,” he tells a delighted Auba, “see you there.”

“Awesome.  Nice to meet you properly, Mario.”

“You too.” Mario forces a polite smile, but Marco can hear the annoyance in his voice.

Auba leaves them as they pull their shirts back on (Marco tries not to feel disappointed) and begin walking back to Mario’s villa. 

“Are you going back to yours to change?”

“No, I’ll just shower if that’s okay.  I’ve got some spare clothes.” Marco gestures to the backpack and tries not to feel defensive at the way Mario’s expression tightens.

“Marco, I really don’t want to do this.”

“I’ve told you before, Auba is chill.  You’ll get along great.”

“Yeah, but I wanted this to be just me and you.”

Marco ignores the tug in his heart and shoots back, “you didn’t even know I was here three hours ago.”

“Did so.” Mario says, “you always come here!”

Marco resists the urge to voice the dripping thoughts on his mind and instead focuses on the beauty of Mario’s wet hair drying in the hot sun.  His eyes glint when the rays meet them, and Marco is absolutely captivated.  Mario lets them into his villa and gestures to his shower for Marco to use before retreating to borrow Fabian and Annika’s (who have apparently gone off together somewhere), tries not to think of all the times he got into the shower with Mario and they used more than an environmentally-friendly amount of water because getting washed wasn’t their main focus whatsoever.

Mario’s showered and wrapped in a towel by the time Marco emerges from his bedroom, flips him off as he charges into the room to get changed into some clothes.  His earlier doubts about Auba have seemingly vanished in place of getting drunk and dancing and Marco smiles at the countless times he’s practically had to carry Mario home after he’s taken it too far.  He used to always rib him for it the morning after, but he’d give anything to relive those days now, and he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to feel like it’s 2013 again, just for a few nights.

Marco’s retrospection is interrupted by Mario stepping out of his bedroom.  He looks _good_ , Marco’s brain supplies lamely, the combination of the light blue shirt against his tan skin a beautiful combination and Marco is struck by his best friend’s ability to make the simplest outfit look like he’s just stepped off the pages of a catwalk.

“Come on then.” Marco says before Mario picks up on his staring.

The sun is setting over Dubai when they walk to the club, casting an orange shadow over the water.  Mario is quiet by his side as the enter the club, already see the throngs of people dancing as the lights hit them.  Marco’s just about to suggest looking for Auba when the man in question jumps on his shoulders and drags them both towards the bar, presenting them with shots that look practically toxic, but Auba downs one with ease and Marco follows suit.  Mario still looks a little uncomfortable but downs the shot willingly enough when Marco gives him a little smile.

Mario didn’t need to worry about any awkwardness with Auba.  After the first four shots the two of them discover they have loads in common and chat away, getting steadily drunker and drunker as Marco’s left with Auba’s teammates who keep trying to get him to drink an obnoxiously bright and probably vomit-inducingly sweet cocktail.  One of his teammates who Marco thinks is called Guelor plucks the cocktail from his hands and drinks half of it in one go and they all cheer, so Marco, never being one to turn down a drinking game, takes the glass back from him and downs the other half, shuddering at the sugar and resting a hand on the bar to steady himself as the club spins.

He bundles himself back over to Auba and Mario who are now apparently discussing all the differences between German and Gabonese football and concluding that the only similarity they have is the fact their countries’ share the same first letter.  It’s ridiculous and Marco has to laugh at them, which proves to be a bad mistake as the two of them team up to pull him away from the bar and onto the dancefloor.

Auba strays from them a little, attracting a crowd from his friendly smile and… interesting dance moves.  Mario stays with Marco, the two of them dancing so close Marco can feel his body pressed up against his own and the next breath is suddenly much harder.

“You were right!” Mario yells over the music, snapping Marco back to reality.

“What?”

“Auba’s great!  I really like him!”

Marco smiles and doesn’t respond, reluctant to wake up with a gravelly voice in addition to the headache that he resigned himself to when he downed that cocktail.  Mario doesn’t seem to share his concerns though, judging by the way he yells out the lyrics to _Hips Don’t Lie_ while dancing in a way that is extremely close to actually grinding on Marco.

 It’s so hot in there and sweat is dripping down Mario’s face and his hair is falling into his eyes _again_ and Mario is going to be the fucking death of Marco when he unbuttons his shirt and chucks it around his neck.  Most of the men in the club are topless, Auba passes by laughing, all the Gabon players with him and all of them have discarded their shirts but Marco barely spares them a second glance and his eyes roll back to Mario.  It’s like the younger is trying to turn him on, judging by the flirtatious look in his eyes and the fact he definitely isn’t complaining about Marco’s attention.

Marco only pauses dancing to drink another two shots before he feels slightly nauseous, so he waves off Mario’s puppy eyes (with extreme difficulty) when he tries to get him back on the dancefloor and sits on one of the bar stools and just watches him.

Girls come up to him and they dance, but they never seem to last more than a song.  Marco could feel jealous, and he does slightly when he sees the way they press their bodies against him, but he’s enjoying the sight of Mario enjoying himself for what must be the first time in ages if their recent phone calls are anything to go by, so he doesn’t let it concern him too much.

Auba finds him at some point and orders himself a beer, sitting down next to Marco and turning his attention on him.  The Gabonese players are surrounding Mario and Marco can see him in the centre, smiling and flushed with alcohol and he’s beautiful.

“Someone’s staring.” Auba teases, coming to sit down next to him.

“Shut up.” Marco blushes, earning him a wink which only promises relentless teasing once Auba’s got whatever he wants to say out.

“I’m sorry for anything I said about him.  He’s really nice, even if he does play for Bayern.”

“He’s my best friend,” Marco says without thinking, laughing at Auba’s mock-offended expression, “sorry mate.”

“I was here for you, we have a fucking celebration together!” Auba exclaims, but Marco can see the twinkle in his eye and knows he’s joking, “I can’t believe you’ve replaced me for a Bayern player!”

“Actually, I think you’ll find we were best friends before I met you.” Marco teases, bracing himself for the inevitable slap he earns himself.

“Just best friends?”

Marco doesn’t have the motivation to lie.  But he also doesn’t want to voice anything like what went on between him and Mario in the middle of a nightclub when anyone could hear them, so he waits until his silence forms his own answer, sits through the teasing Auba isn’t able to resist.  He’s barely shut up when his team and Mario head over to them and before they know it someone decides they’ve had enough and they’re stumbling out of the club.  Marco’s pretty drunk, but Mario seems completely wasted so Marco takes Mario’s villa key out of his shorts pocket (blushing when Mario makes a choice comment about feeling his ass).  Mario has also miraculously managed to keep his shirt with him, so Marco grabs that too, wills himself not to relent to the sudden resurface of clingy Mario and not to think about the way he danced with him in the club.

The walk back to their courtyard is short and he bundles Mario into the villa and into bed before the younger one can complain to him about leaving.  His best friend starts to stop him, mumbling out something that sounds like _stay,_ but Marco just shuts the door and leaves because he’s sure that if he listens to any more he won’t be able to stop himself.  He posts the keys through the letterbox as he steps out into the night.

The two of them finally meet up at the beach at two in the afternoon the next day, Mario looking worse for wear as he flips Marco off for laughing at his bedraggled state.  Fabian and Annika drop by and the four of them play some football for a few hours before the two of them leave and Mario and Marco are alone again with the sun low in the sky.

“Thank you for surprising me.” Mario says.

“It’s nothing.  I was coming anyway, you should thank your brother for arranging it.”

“You didn’t have to though.  You’d have been perfectly within your right after what I’ve done to you.  I don’t even know why you still talk to me.”

Marco can barely see him through the blinding light of the sun, which makes him suck in a breath as he remembers Mario’s nickname, the one he used to whisper during the nights, moan during sex, and he has to look away because he can’t stop the feeling of wanting to kiss Mario, doesn’t want to think about the consequences of that.

He doesn’t want Mario to turn him away again after he’s only just got him back.

“We've had this conversation before.  I talk to you because I want to.” He says finally.  Mario doesn’t say anything in response so Marco forces his eyes on him again, sees the way Mario’s gaze is fixed on the sea and the sky merging on the horizon.  It’s much easier to look at him like this, when he can’t see everything Mario’s eyes are saying, and he can just pretend he’s admiring from afar.  Mario doesn’t speak again until Marco’s dropping him off at his villa and hugging him goodbye. 

☆

Marco doesn’t get thoughts of Mario’s eyes off his mind for months afterwards.  It doesn’t help when they arrive back at Brackel after the winter break and Auba tells everyone about how he met Mario and the two of them became friends and suddenly everyone’s sharing stories of Mario, some of which Marco’s heard millions of times and one hilarious one from Mats that Marco can hardly wait to rib Mario about, because he cannot believe that Mario walked down the streets of Dortmund in nothing but his underwear just to earn himself one bite of the waffle Kevin bought.

Their text conversations continue in the same vein, neither of them mentioning the moments that happened between them in Dubai.  The stories Mario recounts to him get sadder and more frequent and Marco hates it, hates it more than the injuries that plague him throughout the whole season.  Neither of them gets called up for the March internationals and Marco briefly considers flying down to Munich and doing nothing but eating waffles with Mario for two weeks, but the lure of the upcoming Euros and some strict words from Tuchel telling him he’s got to stay in Dortmund and do rehab stop that plan before he even gets to mention it to Mario.

 **Mario:** remember when you promised to punch guardiola

 **Marco:** yes given that i seem to promise that every day

 **Mario:** can you come and do it please

 **Mario:** he’s making me watch videos of all my teammates on international break

 **Mario:** telling me that i could join them if i worked harder

 **Marco:** fuck tuchel telling me to stay in dortmund i’m on my way

 **Mario:** i actually wish you were

 **Marco:** ‘actually’ i see how it is

 **Mario:** yeah i don’t actually like you

 **Marco:** love you too

He’s fit enough to play in the Klassiker and cranes his neck for the Bayern bus from the moment he’s dropped off in the depths of the Signal-Iduna.  He and Mario don’t text the day of a game, deciding that they’ll probably end up getting sucked into a conversation and forget to do their pre-match rituals, but that doesn’t stop him waiting by the entrance to the Bayern dressing room when he hears the message come from Tuchel that Bayern have arrived.

Guardiola brushes past him and Marco doesn’t imagine the disgust written on Bayern’s coach’s face.  His dislike of Marco has been well documented, from all the goals he’s scored in games against Bayern (Marco snorts to himself at this, in the knowledge that he’s been out injured for what seems like more games than he’s played) as well as the fact he’s apparently renowned for making Mario late for team talks.

Thomas punches him on the arm as he passes, prompting a curt remark from Marco about him being banned from playing if the DFB caught him deliberately trying to injure an opposition player.  Thomas only laughs and heads inside the dressing room, telling Marco to warn Dortmund’s defence because after _what happened last time_ they’d better be prepared.

Manu and Jerome give him smiles as they pass.  Fips stops to shake his hand like the serious captain he is, while Lewy pauses to chat to him about how he’s doing and gives him a hug that probably lasts too long but Marco doesn’t care.  He misses Lewy.  Not as much as he misses Mario, but still a lot.  It’s when he pulls away from Lewy that he sees who he’s been waiting for, smiling up at him and Marco wraps his arms around him, pulls him close to feel him press against his chest in the way Mario always told him he loved. 

“Good luck today, yeah?”

Mario only smiles grimly but that’s all he needs to convey the harsh reality.

“You too Marco,” he says as Guardiola yells at him to hurry up.  Mario scuttles into the Bayern dressing room immediately and it takes all of Marco’s willpower not to follow him and have it out with his coach.  His mind thinks back to the semi-final in May, his desire to yell insults at him after seeing the way he treated Mario deepening by the second, his blood rushing in the way it does before a fight on the pitch and he actually jumps when Tuchel quietly calls him back to come and get dressed.

Once he arrives back in the dressing room he finds the team are stoic and silent.  Tuchel is pale and frantically reminding them of their tactics, telling them that he will not suffer another humiliation like they did in Munich last year.  Mats stands up and gives his captain’s speech about how big the game is and what it means to play Bayern, a speech Marco has heard hundreds of times before, but the way Mats says it still makes him listen and makes his skin itch in want to get out on the pitch.

They line up next to Bayern, Marco standing next to Thomas who sends him winks and waves while the cameras aren’t on them, and overexaggerated death glares when they are.  It’s hilarious and Marco has to look away to avoid bursting out laughing and disturbing the tranquillity most of his team prefer in the immediate moments before a match.

Auba nudges him and they bump fists, a silent pledge to go out and do their best, before the referees are walking out and Mats and Fips are leading the teams out and they’re engulfed in the cacophony of noise.  The Yellow Wall is even bolder than usual, the same way they always are when Bayern come to visit.

For all their anticipation, the game is dull.  Neither team scores and Marco’s substituted off with ten minutes remaining.  The crowd sing his name as he exits the field, and he hugs Tuchel briefly before taking his seat next to Neven, eyes immediately glancing across to the opposite dugout where Mario is sitting, head resting in his hands.  It hurts Marco more than he expects when he isn’t even surprised that Mario doesn’t even get subbed on at the end to search for a late winner.

Guardiola must be extremely frustrated with his team’s performance because there’s barely time for Marco to hug Mario before the latter is ushered off by one of the assistant coaches to get back on the bus, never mind for any sort of conversation.  The Bayern bus leaves, leaving Marco standing there watching it fade into the distance, his words of reassurance hanging on his lips.  The words he always wants to say but can never quite get them to sound as he means to on text message.

 **Mario:** you were great today

 **Marco:** thanks

 **Marco:** wish you could’ve been on the field with me

 **Mario:** you should’ve known better than to wish that

Mario’s self-depreciation is wormed into everything he says and it’s impossible to miss, from the way he writes off his own ability in a tone so casual he could’ve been talking about his shopping list, to the cutting comments he’ll make in reply to something Marco’s said.  They’re never meant maliciously at Marco, and maybe that’s what hurts him the most.

Dortmund beat Tottenham in both legs of their Europa League tie and Marco watches the draw with Auba, placing bets on who they think they’ll get.  Marco thinks they’ll get Sevilla, while Auba’s convinced they’ll pull Shakhtar.  In hindsight, it’s stupid that neither of them prepares for the situation that actually occurs when Sevilla and Shakhtar both get pitted against different teams, and Marco’s heart drops when he sees ‘Borussia Dortmund vs. Liverpool FC’ written in big across the television screen.

“Kloppo…” Auba whispers next to him.

_“I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”_

Mario texts him almost straight away and the two of them roast Liverpool (but only the Liverpool before Kloppo joined), and Marco’s sure they can beat them, but he isn’t sure if he _wants to._

The media are running riot about Jürgen Klopp’s return to Dortmund to the extent that Marco thinks they paid UEFA to draw them against each other for the sake of the headlines.  Everyone’s quiet the next day at training, some of the old stalwarts of the club avoiding Marco’s gaze, like they know what the repercussions of the draw are going to be. 

If the team is nervous about the Europa League draw, they don’t let it show despite the media buzzing around them like flies to a corpse.  They beat Augsburg and Bremen before all the attention turns to the match against Liverpool.

Dortmund arrive at the Signal-Iduna first and all the team wait outside the dressing room like Marco did before the Klassiker, Tuchel not even bothering to try and get them into tactical.  He knows their coach sees the way the team stiffen when news rushes through the ground of Liverpool’s arrival, sees the impromptu applause the team breaks out into when Kloppo leads his squad into the stadium.  He waves at Emre and shakes hands with Henderson who walks down the line of players.  Kloppo has stopped to talk to Tuchel, before turning around and facing his old team.

He starts with Mats and stops and talks with every single player.  Marco’s quite the way down the line and watches the way everyone brightens up once Kloppo speaks to them, hears his jokes about how formal this welcome was, laughs along with the rest of the team at Ilkay’s quip about how they rehearsed this for hours after practice.  He shakes hands with Auba and discusses his son, before he turns to Marco.

“Hi, Marco.” Kloppo says and pulls him into a hug.  The old remarks of “teacher’s pet,” start flying around the room and Marco’s glad for them, because his teammates attention’s turn to roasting him, giving him a moment to wipe his eyes to stop the sudden tears that are threatening to overspill.  “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright.  We miss you.”

“I miss you all too.” Kloppo says, before leaning over to whisper in his ear, “give me your shirt after the game please.”

Marco nods and that’s it, Kloppo’s moved onto Nuri and asking him what he remembers about Liverpool that he might use to beat them.  It’s not long after that Henderson appears by his side and they disappear with Mats and Tuchel for the discussion with the referee.

The interactions with Kloppo have done wonders for the team and all the tension of the reunion dissipated.  They’re teasing each other and laughing in a way that’s unusual for them before a big game, but even despite the noise Marco doesn’t miss the buzz of his phone.  Even though they’ve texted almost at every spare moment since the last time they saw each other, Marco still double takes at Mario’s name appearing on his phone screen.

 **Mario:** i know we don’t normally talk before a game but say hi to kloppo for me

 **Mario:** good luck today

 **Mario:** i know you can do it

 **Marco:** thank you

 **Marco:** i’ll let you know what he says

 **Marco:** although idk if he’ll remember you

 **Mario:** you’re a cunt

 **Marco:** you love it

Mario doesn’t reply and it’s probably for the best because Tuchel and Mats have arrived into the dressing room.  Mats is hurrying to get dressed while Tuchel recites the tactics Marco has heard on end for about six days straight, wanting to get this over and done with so he can get out and play.  Tuchel is a good manager, but his tactical sessions make Marco want to fall asleep sometimes.

Mats barely says anything, just rouses them with a bit of anti-England chanting that Marco’s sure the Liverpool players can probably hear.  He can hear the roars of the crowd as he lines up in the tunnel, acknowledges Auba like they always do before they walk out into the deafening roar of their home stadium.  Kloppo’s presence has attracted the media in their throngs and Marco can see the box designated for them absolutely filled to the brim as he stands and waits for the game to begin.

Liverpool break through with Origi for near the end of the first half and Tuchel yells at them for the entire half time, telling them to try and get forward because they cannot lose at home.  The second half has barely started when Ilkay crosses to Mats to head past the Liverpool goalkeeper and the Signal-Iduna explodes around them.  The rest of the game goes by without a goal and Marco can tell Tuchel is disappointed in them from the look on his face, but he exits the changing room before he can begin a lecture and finds Kloppo already waiting for him, handing him his shirt without a word.

The mental disconnect is strong when Kloppo, bedecked in Liverpool red so stark the yellow of Marco’s shirt looks strange in his hands, leads him through his own stadium.  They find a deserted room that Marco (and evidently Kloppo) knows no one will use on a matchday and the door’s barely fallen shut behind them when Kloppo starts speaking.

“You played well.”

“Thanks.” Marco smiles.  He’s confused at his own struggle to meet his former coach’s eyes, as if he’s scared what he might find in them.  He looks up long enough to see Kloppo is looking at him expectantly, so he says the first thing he can think of.  “Congratulations on getting the Liverpool job.”

“Thank you.” Kloppo says stiffly, “it’s very different to the Bundesliga and English is a difficult language but I like the challenge.”

“Mario says hi.” Marco says before he can stop himself and chokes back the laugh that threatens to release itself as he sees Kloppo’s features soften.  For all the jokes from the team at Marco’s expense, the truth is that Mario is the one true teacher’s pet when it comes to Kloppo.

“How is he?”

“He’s fine,” Marco lies because he doesn’t know the extent of the contact Mario’s had with him.  He knows Kloppo drove down to see him right after he left, but he doesn’t know if they’ve had any contact at all since.

“You’re lying to me.” There’s no sense of accusation in Kloppo’s voice, he says it like it’s an observation and _fuck,_ Marco had forgotten his ability to read him like he was an open book.

“Mario’s… struggling.” Marco admits finally and it’s out there now, his words sitting heavy in the air.

“I’ve been following him, and I see that he barely ever plays for Bayern now.  How much do you speak to him?”

“All the time.” Marco says, “he tells me everything Guardiola says to him.”

“I’ve always had the feeling Guardiola never wanted him,” Kloppo blurts out and it’s so accusatory that Marco actually glances towards the door to make sure no one overheard him.  Kloppo must pick up on his concerns because his voice is quieter now, every single word dripping with something akin to regret and it knifes through Marco’s heart.  “Part of me thinks it was part of the plan Bayern concocted to hurt Dortmund.”

“If they were it didn’t work, Auba and Heinrikh are fantastic---,”

“They were, yes, but nothing could compare to you and Mario.  I told you that in 2012, you must remember.” _Yes, he does.  He thinks about it way too much._ “So, I agree it didn’t hurt us immediately but we both remember what happened last season.” Kloppo pauses and Marco cringes at the reminder.  “I don’t know, it’s just an inkling I have.  You always said there was nothing we could’ve done to have convinced him to stay but part of me thinks there is.  To this day, I still think about what that could’ve been.”

“I don’t think it matters now.  I think he’s learnt something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know he must have thought the whole move to Bayern through, or at least as much as he thought was possible at the time; but I wonder if he ever considered the consequences.  I’m not just talking about the abuse from the fans, but he was so impressionable, I think the lure of Bayern was too much for him to resist and I don’t think he ever really considered that it wouldn’t work out.  I think he’s learnt how harsh reality can be.”

“No, I think you’re right.” Kloppo nods, “I just don’t think it’s fair to blame him for a decision he made when he was young.”

“Neither do I but that doesn’t stop the fans doing it.”

“Nothing can stop the fans from thinking what they want to think.  Mario is a wonderful player and he doesn’t deserve to have this tarnish his career.” Kloppo is talking more to himself than Marco now and Marco can’t help but wonder if Kloppo knows something he doesn’t.  He can’t shake the feeling of missing something even when Kloppo turns on him and starts asking him endless questions about how Dortmund’s changed since he’s gone, about the new players, the old players, Tuchel, telling him stories about Liverpool and his struggle with the Scouse accent until Henderson is knocking on the door and telling him that they’re all waiting for him.  The Liverpool captain shakes Marco’s hand and congratulates him on a good season and Marco wants to like him, but he resents the way Kloppo puts his arm around the man and they walk off into their crowd of _red_ which seems to be the colour of Marco’s own personal hell.

They play Schalke away at the weekend and they draw but before Marco can really place himself he’s landing in Liverpool and feels the coastal air washing over his face.  The city is covered in red and Marco is jarred by how it feels like Munich as the Dortmund coach rolls through the streets, pushing through the endless crowds of Liverpool fans and Marco can’t draw his eyes away from the red flares billowing scarlet smoke against the night sky.  He has to blink twice as he enters Anfield and sees the portrait of Kloppo on the walls alongside a wall of their accomplishments and he suddenly feels fucking _terrified._

Both the Liverpool and Dortmund fans are singing _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ when the teams walk out onto the pitch and it makes Marco grip the hand of the little girl he’s walking next to slightly tighter, hearing the way the anthem ricochets around the walls of the stadium.  He’s dumbstruck during the minutes silence for Hillsborough, looks directly up at the Kop who have the same power as the Yellow Wall.  He sees Kloppo walking along the touchline, yelling something to his players in English and his chest burns.  The combination causes him to steel his heart because despite the smiles on his teammates faces and the squeeze Auba gives him when they hug, he somehow knows he’s going to be preparing himself for heartbreak.

When he gets the third goal and celebrates right in front of the travelling fans, he almost chastises himself for being too negative.  They're 3-1 up away and Liverpool have a mountain to climb to get them through now.

Marco should've known better than to question the resolve of a Kloppo side because they’re going through until the first minute of injury time when Dejan Lovren heads in right in front of the Kop.

He hears the roar of Anfield ring in his ears at the final whistle, tries to avoid the cameras following Kloppo around as he celebrates with his new team.  It hurts more than he expected to see his old coach and some of their old assistant coaches celebrating while Marco and the rest of the team are dejected.  Auba crouches on the grass, eyes fixed on the floor, and Marco’s legs feel very heavy as he walks over to help him up.

Marco can still hear the fans’ chanting when they finally make it into the dressing room, the breakout of _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ not aimed at his team makes him want to stick his head in a bucket full of ice to block out the sounds.  Tuchel is speaking to them but Marco isn’t really listening, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep.  He’s exhausted with the exertion of the game and then the disappointment of the loss and it stings harder than he expected.

Emre and Kloppo are waiting for them when they leave the dressing room and Marco wishes they weren’t because he doesn’t know what to say to his old coach who looks almost apologetic.  He can’t walk by, not when Kloppo is approaching him.  He thinks for a terrible moment he’s going to try and console him too, but then Kloppo pulls him into a silent hug.  He must remember how terrible Marco gets after a loss in an important game.

“Congratulations.” He gets out, hating the way his voice cracks on the word.  The team are silent as they file out of the room behind him and he’s sure people have heard him, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.

“Thank you.” Kloppo says graciously.  “You played well.”

Marco bites down the snarky comment on his tongue and nods.

“When do you fly back?” Kloppo asks and Marco thanks God for Mats’ sudden presence because his brain is too fried to even think of anything but the loss.

“Tomorrow morning.” The captain answers as he hugs Kloppo quickly before whispering something in his ear that makes Kloppo’s face blanch.  Kloppo whispers something back and suddenly Marco feels very excluded and he manages to slip off and out of the stadium before the two of them realise he’s gone.

He’s settling into his seat when Mats chucks something at him and sits down in the seat next to him.  Auba boards the bus next and looks a little annoyed at his usual seat being taken as he slumps down next to Ilkay.

“This is from Kloppo,” Mats says by way of explanation, gesturing to the sweets in Marco’s lap.  “He meant to give them to you, but you vanished.”

“He was busy speaking to you.  I felt like I was intruding.”

“I told him as much.  Anyway, that’s not the reason I’m sitting here.  I need to tell you something.” Marco can’t miss the trepidation in the captain’s eyes and the ache in his stomach turns acidic because he _knows_ that look.  It’s the look that was written on both Mario and Lewy’s faces right before they told him, and Marco isn’t even surprised when Mats announces it, “I’m leaving for Bayern at the end of the season.  Kloppo told me that I should tell you first.”

Maybe it’s because he’s had this conversation with two others before, but Marco doesn’t feel the wave of shock crash over him.  His conscience just skips to the resignation to the fact that this is how it is going to continue to be for as long as Marco plays in Germany.  Mats is continuing to talk at him, filling the air with pointless words that must just be an aversion for anyone who is paying attention to them enough to care, the post-game silence having given way to dejected small talk.  Liverpool is lit up as the bus takes them through the streets and Marco sighs before turning back to face Mats.

“It’s okay.”

He can see Mats start in surprise at the acceptance in his voice.  He must know that Marco’s been through this before though, because he doesn’t question it and instead turns to making sure Marco is okay in the captain-like efficiency he’s always had.  It strikes him that that’s going to be _another_ change he’s going to be forced to deal with, after the losses of Mario, Lewy and Kloppo, and now a new captain. 

“When are you going to tell the rest of the team?”

“When we get back to Dortmund.”

He knows that although he's gradually become more resigned to Dortmund players leaving, especially to Bayern, some of the team are still not very happy.  He just hopes for Mats' sake nothing kicks off like it did when Mario left.

“You’ll be fine here.  The others, they’re all so talented--,” Mats tries to reassure him, as if he senses his doubts, but he trails off when he sees the admonishing look Marco must give him. “I’ll miss you.”

Marco doesn’t respond but he doesn’t shove off the hug Mats pulls him into.

 **Marco:** get ready for the unveiling of bayern’s new signing

 **Marco:** please welcome

 **Marco:** mats hummels!!!

 **Mario:** fucking hell

 **Mario:** you’re not serious

 **Marco:** enjoy playing with mats again

 **Mario:** 1) what the fuck

 **Mario:** 2) marco you should know by now that i’m leaving bayern in the summer

Marco does know this.  Not only has Mario told him several times, Bayern have made no secret of their desire to rid themselves of Mario.  Marco doesn’t miss the seemingly ten news articles every day linking him to the team that has just broken Marco’s heart.

 **Marco:** to where?  liverpool?

 **Mario:** maybe

 **Mario:** tbh i don’t really know yet

 **Mario:** speaking of liverpool

 **Mario:** i don’t know if you want to hear this but

 **Mario:** it wasn’t your fault

 **Mario:** they just had an incredible comeback

 **Mario:** you did all you could

 **Mario:** we’re all watching it at jerome’s (btw he was practically sitting on lewy) and i cheered louder than anyone when you scored

 **Mario:** it wasn’t what you wanted but you were great today

 **Marco:** thanks.  it doesn’t mean much in the grand scale of things but

 **Mario:** i know

 **Mario:** i hope kloppo hugged you as tight as i want to

 **Marco:** he did, don’t worry

 **Mario:** good.  see you soon

☆

Mats doesn’t tell the team straight away and it makes things almost awkward between them, Marco hating having to watch Mats go around and act all motivational to a team he’s leaving at the end of the season.  They beat Hamburg and Stuttgart and the team seems back on good spirits, but then they beat Hertha and Bayern beats Bremen and all the media are talking about a Der Klassiker DFB Pokal Final when Mats calls them all into the meeting room after training one night.

The silence that falls over the room when Mats announces it is awkward and Marco feels bad for him, because although Mats is leaving them for their big rivals he’s still played such a massive role in Marco’s career at Dortmund.  There’s no worse time for him to announce it too, just after they’ve discovered they will be facing off with Bayern for the cup. 

“Good luck.” He says to break the silence and apparently his words jerk everyone else into motion, stiff words of congratulations being sent in Mats’ direction which their captain accepts quietly.

“Marcel, you’ll be captain next season.” Tuchel answers the unasked question and Marcel’s face pales, before he swallows and accepts the decision.  “And Marco, you’re vice-captain.”

Marco doesn’t know what the air in the dressing room will be like before the next game, but Mats still stands and makes his usual speech and they still all pay as dutiful attention as they always have.  Despite the revelations and the upcoming change, they all still play as they know how, Marco gets a goal and Auba gets two, and Andre gets one.  Marco should be disappointed at the loss of the clean sheet but he’s happy for his friend, glad to see him back in Germany and even more excited when Andre whispers, “I’m joining you next season,” after the match.  He’s lost so many friends over the years that to have Andre join makes a welcome change and is already excited for Andre’s presence in training and his drunken antics.

The season doesn’t end in the way they wanted, they lose to Frankfurt and draw with Köln, Marco scoring Dortmund’s final goal of the Bundesliga season.  They do a lap of honour around the Signal-Iduna and it’s horrible to watch the fans cheer Mats because they haven’t found out about his transfer yet and as far as they know he’s still their beloved captain.  He waves and applauds until his arms feel like they’re about to drop off and it’s hours after the game by the time the stadium is empty and the team gather on the pitch for a meeting Mats decided to call.  Their captain brings out alcohol which is immediately passed around the team eagerly, Marco getting his hands on a bottle of vodka that looks like a hangover and he downs half of it in one go.  They’ve got the day off tomorrow, so Marco knows he can afford this and _god he needs it._

Tuchel disappears around 11PM and they all head into one of the big rooms in the bowels of the stadium.  Alcohol is running through Marco and briefly he thinks he’s back in Munich and with Mario and then Auba throws his arms around him and grins at him and he’s drawn back to reality.

The night quietens down, some of the more conservative teammates heading off to go to bed but Marco stays there with Mats and Auba, vision blurred and finally feeling something that’s tantalisingly close to happiness.

He pulls his phone out while the colours swim and he finds himself texting Mario, spilling out his heart not even expecting him to be awake but Mario replies almost immediately, and he doesn’t even try to ignore his heart leaping.

 **Marco:** you knfow youre beautiful

 **Mario:** shush you dork

 **Mario:** although i missed you complimenting me so it’s not too bad

 **Marco:** why are youi telling me to shushd then?.?

 **Mario:** you’re very drunk

 **Marco:** yejs

 **Marco:** i can’t wait to see you at final”1!!

 **Mario:** you too marco

 **Mario:** don’t get too drunk

Auba snatches his phone off him and suddenly he and Mats have burst into an impromptu game of catch with Marco’s phone that the owner drunkenly tries to chase and intercept before a strangely sober Roman catches it with ease and hands it back.

“Maybe don’t get it out again with this lot around.” He ruffles Marco’s hair (which is very annoying, Marco spent a lot of time trying to get it to look right, thank you very much) before disappearing back into the team still milling around.  Mats has decided he’s exhausted and has curled up next to Ilkay, who begins tickling him, filming him for the reaction and laughing way too hard.

Auba reattaches himself to Marco’s side and Marco knows he looks completely wasted in the picture Auba takes of the two of them.  He can barely walk in a straight line and his eyes are unfocused, and although he’s got the smallest injury in his groin he’s ready to play in the final and is ready to destroy Bayern one last time before they take another one of his teammates.

He stumbles into a taxi Roman orders for him and almost falls asleep if it wasn’t for the fact the driver seems to be in a pretty bad mood.  He forces himself to stay awake because he doesn’t want to have an argument with a stranger and fumbles to pay him, barely even taking the time to strip himself off his jeans once he’s inside and falls into bed.

Tuchel is tense all week and the team train harder than ever once they return to practice.  Rumours of Mats’ transfer is starting to leak into the media and Marco can’t help but wonder if it was a Bayern inside job to deter Dortmund from focusing on the match, but it works because suddenly cameras are appearing at Brackel and Mats has to stay behind for interview training, which makes   Marco scoff because Mats has never needed anything of the sort, always been an interviewers’ favourite for his lack of controversy and polite mannerisms.  Marco can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to finally raise a trophy after the struggles of the niggling injuries that have never seemed too awful at the time but are apparently damaging his reputation with Jogi, knows that the cup final is his last chance to prove that he’s worthy of going to France.

They fly to Berlin the morning of the day before the final and are instantly greeted by their fans.  It’s so overwhelming it feels like they’ve just stepped off the plane into the Signal-Iduna, and it’s making Marco uncharacteristically nervous.  The significance of the event weighs heavy in the air.

He feels his phone buzz several times in his back pocket but he’s too busy talking to the fans and signing autographs to check it.  They are finally hurried onto the bus by one of the assistants because apparently Bayern’s flight is fifteen minutes from landing and they need to get Dortmund cleared out before they arrive, to prevent a possible fight breaking out between fans.  He doesn’t get chance to check his phone on the bus either, being drawn into a game of UNO by Erik and Auba, instinctively teaming up with the latter and causing Eric to have to pick up eight cards.  Auba wins in the end and crows excitedly until Erik stands up and whacks him around the head, causing the whole bus to laugh at the mini-brawl that ignites between the two of them.

Marco steps into his hotel room and smiles at the little cushioned seat by the window.  He sits himself down, takes a moment to admire the Berlin skyline with the Fernsehturn pointing high above the cityscape, before he remembers the text message he received and pulls his phone out.

It’s from Mario, which isn’t too surprising, but its content definitely is.

 **Mario:** hey marco just so you know i won’t be in berlin

 **Mario:** i’m not in the travelling squad

 **Marco:** why?

 **Mario:** i have the smallest injury so guardiola didn’t pick me

 **Marco:** i wish you were here but your recovery is more important

 **Mario:** i guess so.  i just wish i could play

 **Marco:** i know the feeling

 **Mario:** good luck during the match

 **Marco:** thanks, mario

It’s not just Marco who feels tense about the upcoming match, as evidenced by the thick tension in the room when the team go down for dinner.  Auba’s smiling as always, but it’s forced.  Mats is unusually quiet.  Even Ilkay isn’t trying to prank anyone.  Tuchel stands up and makes a speech about how this is their third Pokal final in three years and they’ve lost the last two, facts Marco didn’t need reminding of.  The loss in extra time in 2014 was painful.  Once dinner is finished, some of the team commune in Auba’s bedroom, and Marco lingers for ten minutes, but the hope on his younger teammates faces is achingly familiar and guts him like he doesn’t expect, so he creeps away without being noticed.

The sky is black by the time he gets back to his hotel room.  As he sits down on the window seat, Marco can see the Olympiastadion in the distance, huge and lit up and his eyes naturally fall onto the dotted lights.  His chest hurts when he thinks about the final tomorrow, considering every possible scenario.  Dortmund winning.  Dortmund losing.  Getting injured.  Dropping the trophy.  The endless possibilities are whirling around his head and it hurts, so he heads to bed in hopes of shutting off his mind.

The grey light leaking through the curtains wake him before his alarm does and he drags himself, muscles heavy like they’re bogged down with lead, into the shower.  The water does lots to rid himself of the slow feeling, but his mind starts racing and the cascade of water does little to stop it.

He’s one of the first down into the dining room and walks in on Mats and Tuchel discussing something animatedly, so engrossed in their conversation neither of them notice him until he places his plate on the table and sits down slightly away from them.  They greet him and turn back to their conversation, which include words such as “hate,” “fans,” and “blame,” obviously directed at Mats, and it draws Marco back to the words yelled at Mario after his transfer to Bayern was announced. 

The room starts to fill up then, the scratch of chairs against the floor and the clatter of plates drowning out the hushed conversation between the captain and coach, so Marco turns to Auba who has just sat down next to him.

“Ready for today?” He asks.

Auba smirks and Marco relieved to discover his friend has got enough confidence for the two of them, because Marco has no belief in anything anymore.

The final is in the evening and the team pass the time through games of FIFA, which ends up in Marco being tormented by Heinrikh, Julian and Marcel because they can usually never beat him and even Christian manages it that day.  Dinner is a strained affair, a nervous energy bubbling over the team and threatening to overspill, until finally the call comes for them to board the bus to the stadium.  Nerves have been jittering through Marco’s body all day and at that point, he’s just ready for them to get out there and play, even with his cynical view of their chances.

The crowd is loud, they always are, Marco can hear the rumble of the announcers riling them up, even ninety minutes before the game is due to begin.  By the time he walks out for the warm up, the stadium is over three quarters full and his name ricochets of the Dortmund fans.  He knows Jogi is here, but that doesn’t prevent the anxiety flood through him when the national coach appears on the big screens, and Marco knows this is his last chance to make his estimation.

“Right,” Tuchel says the moment they converge into the dressing room, “remember what I told you.  Stick tight to the ball.  Marco, play Auba through.  Mats, Sven, Sokratis, stay tight together.  Allow Lukasz and Marcel to get space in the flanks.  Utilise Bayern’s weak spots.” Tuchel’s words are more frantic than his usual pre-game speeches, like he’s feeding off the intense atmosphere.  The crowd is getting louder.  Marco can hear the drums.  The fans begin their chanting.  It thrums through Marco’s body.  He believes he can do it.

“Marco,” Tuchel says as the team are filing out, “one second.”  He stays behind and silent until the door falls shut behind Roman, “you don’t need me to tell you the consensus about you in the national team.  Just show them what you can do.”

_As if I hadn’t already been fucking planning to._

He lines up behind Auba as always.  Next to him, Thomas is jumping up and down, but he still sends a small smile Marco’s way when their eyes meet.  Marco barely has time to whisper ‘good luck’ before the team is being led out past the trophy for the third time in as many years.

It’s clear from the start the desperation Dortmund is carrying.   The game is messy, yellow cards being shown all over the place, but for all Bayern’s possession they don’t manage to find a way past Dortmund’s defence.  The drums and the screaming echo louder in his ears.  The Dortmund fans are gleaming yellow against the dark night.  The Bayern fans are bleeding red.  It’s a clash and it makes Marco’s mind hurt as he walks off for half time.

Tuchel is beside himself for the whole talk, barely stopping to even breathe as he reminds Dortmund that if they can’t maintain possession, they need to keep their defensive shape and frustrate Bayern.  Their opposition are playing a hundred passes to build the play up in trademark Guardiola style.  It feels like he’s aboard a sinking ship and he’s clinging on for dear life.

The noise seems to get even louder and the mismatched colours even brighter when Marco steps out for the second half.  Auba comes up next to him and whispers, “third time lucky,” but then his friend is gone and looking malicious with intent and Marco has to mirror his expression because god knows why he can’t fucking focus in the biggest match of the year. 

Mats leaves the field with about twenty minutes of normal time remaining.  He watches as his mentor, his captain, his _friend_ disappears down the tunnel and the last thing Marco sees of him is the vivid yellow and he remembers he’ll never see that colour on Mats again either.

The darker the night gets, the brighter the golden trophy shines on the touchline.

They cling on to force extra time and it’s a miracle, because Bayern are walking all over them and Marco really is desperate now because he can see the trophy slipping away with every mark his studs make on the field.  The later it gets the louder the fans get because to them this is a terrific show of football.  To Marco, it’s a living nightmare.

He should’ve seen penalties coming from the moment the game started.  He’s taking the fifth one, if they get that far.  Everything seems to slow down, the noise of the stadium suddenly muted as if he’s watching himself from behind the television, he drowns completely in the atmosphere so much so it’s completely alien to him.  He’s barely aware of Shinji scoring the first penalty.

When Sven and Sokratis both miss, Marco knows this isn’t going to go their way.  Even when Kimmich misses and Auba lets go of his shoulders to score his own penalty, Marco doesn’t even bother trying to delay the inevitable and prepares himself for the heartbreak.

His legs feel like they don’t belong to him as he takes the silent walk to the penalty spot.  Manu’s in front of him, face set with an expression of complete confidence that Marco should feel smug when he smashes the penalty past him.  He can’t even bring himself to be when Costa passes him.  He stares at the ground as, half way across the pitch, Roman fails to save his shot.

It’s over.  There was no third time lucky.  They’ve lost again and this one feels even _worse_ because for all of Marco’s instinct, he can never prepare himself for the bile that rises in his throat when he watches the team decked in colours that are not yellow lift the cup.  His mind pulls up a memory of Mario’s text when he told him that when they won the World Cup, they wrapped it in Marco’s jersey and suddenly he _appreciates_ that for the gesture it really was, and he can’t look at them anymore, has to turn away from the _red_ , the red shirts, the red flags, the red confetti that falls like blood rain all around him.

The bus is silent all the way back to the hotel.  It’s resembles last year almost identically, from Auba next to him, head pressed against the window, to Ilkay’s sad smile, to the fact one of Marco’s closest club members won’t be there anymore.  He heads to his room, shrugging off the offers from Auba and Shinji to get hammered in Auba’s room and he’s finally alone.  He breaks down in tears onto his pillow.  He doesn’t give a fuck if anyone can hear him.

He feels like shit as he steps through the Dortmund airport at mid-morning the next day, forces himself to smile for the selfies a few straggling fans ask him for.  Auba’s more sociable than he is and evidently isn’t quite as torn to pieces about the loss than Marco is, as his friend is apparently more willing to interact with the other members of the team.  He hugs Mats goodbye almost silently, the seeds of doubt planting themselves in his head when the now former captain tells him he’ll see him at the national team training centre for the Euros, almost has the feeling he _knows_ he won’t be going.  He wishes Heinrikh the best in England too, trying not to feel like both their attack and their defence is going to fall to pieces and it’s so terrifying he wonders if it’s time for him to move on as well.

Auba finishes saying goodbye to everyone and leads Marco to his car.  They drive back towards the city, which is covered in grey clouds very appropriate for Marco’s mood.  His head is slumped and he’s almost half asleep, until they drive past the apartment block where Mario used to live.

Marco sits up.  There is a _moving van._ And the man discussing how to get a sofa into the building with the removal guy is _Fabian._

“Auba.” Marco says, “stop the car.”

“What is it?” Auba pulls over and Marco rushes out immediately.  He sees his friend look over, trying to see what it is that has caught Marco’s attention, as the older one waits impatiently for the lights to change so he can go over and see what the fuck is going on.

“Fabian!” He yells when he’s probably nowhere near close enough to Mario’s brother to look sane.  He’s running now, unbrushed hair falling into his eyes as he rounds the corner into the car park for the apartment block and yells again.  Mario’s brother’s eyes fall on him and they flash with surprise.

“Marco, hi.”

“Is he here?”

“Is who here?” Fabian asks, and Marco wants to scream at him because _who the fuck else is he going to mean but Mario?_

“Mario.  Where is he?”

“In Munich.” Fabian says and Marco doesn’t even have time to feel disappointment settle in his heart because Auba has caught up with him and is awkwardly introducing himself as _Pierre, Marco’s best friend._

Marco hates how obvious the confusion in Fabian’s face is.

“Do you need any help?  Because if you do, I can move my car, I’m sure Marco will be happy to help you too---,”

“We’re okay, thank you.  We’re practically finished here anyway.”

“Same flat?” Marco asks without thinking.  His heart burns when Fabian nods because he’s woken up in that flat so many times with Mario next to him.  “Why are you moving back here?”

“I got sick of Munich.” Fabian stutters a little too quickly.

“What about Mario?”

“He was okay with me coming back.  We’re selling our flat anyway, after he transfers.”

“Does he know where he’s going yet?”

“He’s had some offers.  He just doesn’t know which one to choose yet.”

Marco can’t shake the feeling of being lied to for the rest of the day.

☆

His family are midway through singing _Happy Birthday_ to him when his phone rings, cutting all of them off (bar Nico, who Marco is sure is more interested in the cake.)  He exits the room and steels himself when he sees Jogi’s name on his phone screen.

His coach’s voice is stoic, giving nothing away as he wishes Marco a happy birthday and asks him how he’s coping with the loss in the final, but it all seems fake-concern when he delivers exactly what Marco doesn’t want to hear.

“I’m sorry Marco.  We can’t rely on you due to your persistent injuries, so we’ve had to call up a different attacking player to take your place in the squad.  While you do deserve this, particularly after missing out on the World Cup, you must know that we can’t give you a charity place when Germany is full of attacking talent.  You will not be going to the Euros.”

He barely replies, just stutters out an acknowledgement and waits for Jogi to hang up on him.  He knows the news might as well be scrawled in marker pen on his forehead from the way his mother’s shoulders drop knowingly from the second he steps back into the kitchen.  He blows out the candles half-heartedly and thanks her for the cake, but he knows if he tries to eat a slice it’ll only come back up.

He rings Mario the moment his mother lets him go, curling up in his too-small childhood bed and looks at all the trophies from his school days still placed on the shelves as he waits for the younger one to pick up.

“Marco?  Happy birthday.” Mario’s voice is soft and has a hope in it that floors Marco.

“It’s not.”

If his birthday last year was bad, this one is even worse.

“You mean--- Jogi said---.”

“Yeah.  I’m not going.  They can’t rely on me to stay fit and they couldn’t give me a charity place.” Marco quotes, not bothering to hide the hurt.  “What about you?”

“I wish I wasn’t now.”

“You deserve it.” Marco says, hoping he doesn’t sound annoyed at the younger one, because he _does_ deserve it and Marco couldn’t be happier for him, “you’ve been through so much and he still has faith in you, that should tell you all you need to know about your talent.”

“Thank you, I just don’t want to go without you.”

“You’ve got to, Mario.  Guess you’ll just have to settle for raising my shirt again when you win.”

“I don’t want to win if you’re not there.  It hurt too much the last time.”

“What would Jogi say if he heard you talking like that, eh?” Marco teases, trying to sound upbeat, “you’re going to go and be fantastic.”

“On your fucking birthday as well.”

“We both know he can’t just put me on the squad because he’s announcing it on my birthday.  That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Him omitting you entirely doesn’t sound fair either, but he still did it!” Marco tries to shush him, but he’s let Mario loose to rant and he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop that, “you’re a brilliant player who always comes back stronger even when you suffer the worst heartbreak of all.  You’re the definition of a fighter and an inspiration and the team is so lucky to have you and he’s going to chuck all of that away because you’ve got a couple of niggles?  The only way you shouldn’t be there is through your own choice, Marco.”

“It’s okay, I’ll just watch you on TV…”

“It’s not the same and you know it.  When I had to watch the cup final on TV last week, I felt so detached from everything that was going on and I hated it!  You had to do it through Brazil and now through this as well and I don’t know how you stand it!”

“When you’re as permanently injured as me, you get used to it.”

Mario goes so quiet Marco wonders if he’s stopped breathing.  When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and filled with pure _fury._

“He doesn’t realise what a mistake he’s made.”

“I’m sure there was a logical choice.  It’s okay, honestly, it means I get to break my diet and drink beer in the pubs alongside the rest of the fans.”

“How are you so accepting of this?”

“Someone got put in that squad because I can’t keep myself fit.  It’s not fair on them if I’m miserable and rude about them.”

“Yes, it is.  They wouldn’t get offended.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I think it was me who got put in that squad because you didn't.”

☆

It takes almost a whole week for Marco to convince Mario that he’s not just in the squad because of Marco’s injuries.  It should take less time, really, with the amount of evidence Marco has about Mario being a fantastic player, one who’ll give everything for the team, even the fact that Jogi never explicitly said that Mario was directly preventing someone else from being in the team, but Mario is adamant he’s taking Marco’s spot and is racked with guilt.  By that time, the team are on their way to France, and Mario has no other choice than to accept Jogi’s decision.

Dortmund seems empty without his friends.

He doesn’t look at social media and barely replies to the group chat.  His friends are tactful towards him and the others that aren’t there, but Marco hates the constant reminders when someone sends a message like _don’t forget to get your shirt from Jogi’s room, Thomas_ , and all the players send laughing faces in response and Marco wishes he was there to see the context behind it.  He texts them good luck before the game against Ukraine and celebrates when Shkodran puts them ahead and when Basti seals off the victory.  Even so, the feeling of being detached from them is impossible to shake off; but it’s slightly easier to deal with when they release the starting eleven and Mario’s name is right there in big, bold letters.

The draw with Poland is scruffy and the frustration is visible on his teammates’ faces as they walk off the pitch.  That hasn’t stopped Marco from laughing his ass off every time Robert has tried to get past Jerome, knowing the obvious affection the two of them have for each other, and absolutely loses his shit at some of the photos.

**Marco:**

**Marco:** look at these fools

 **Mario:** lmaooo

**Mario:**

**Mario:** do you think they’ve tried this sex position

 **Marco:** FUCKING HELL MARIO

 **Marco:** how the fuck would that even work

 **Mario:** you're not seriously going to ask me to analyse how robert lewandowski and jerome boateng have sex 

 **Mario:** because i'd rather die

 **Marco:** point taken

 **Marco:** how is everyone i miss them

 **Mario:** aside from the poland ranting and the usual drama everyone's good

 **Mario:** they miss you

 **Mario:** thomas just tried to jump on me

 **Mario:** but he missed

 **Mario:** and landed head-first on bernd's lap

 **Marco:** is it bad i can see that perfectly

 **Mario:** not for you

 **Mario:** maybe for thomas though that he's gained a reputation for being dumb

 **Mario:** i just told him that and he's now trying to hit me

 **Mario:** i need to go to avoid this merciless attack

 **Marco:** bye.  i'll pray for your survival 

 **Mario:** thanks

Later when Mario sends him a photo of him holding a dinner plate and a knife with the caption 'prepared for war,' Marco screenshots it without hesitation and sends it off to Basti.

 **Marco:** shouldn't you be looking after your players??

 **Basti:** these two are a lost cause

 **Basti:** how the fuck did fips survive this

 **Marco:** some things are mysteries for a reason

 **Marco:** godspeed, my friend

 **Basti:** i fucking hate you

The team play with the traditional efficiency against Northern Ireland, Mario Gomez scoring on the half hour mark and then playing out the rest of the ninety minutes perfectly.  Marco can't tear his eyes away from the way Mario moves across the pitch, effortlessly flowing from side to side.  He doesn't know how anyone could deny that Mario is not an _incredible_ footballer.  He's honestly disappointed when the board comes up and Mario comes off again.  The game ends and they've qualified top of the group; they’re drawn to play Slovakia, and the pub down the road from Marco’s house is still singing into the late hours of the night. 

He’s woken up the next morning by a phone call.  Bleary-eyed, he swipes left and mumbles, “hello?”

“Marco.” It’s Mario.   _I could recognise that voice anywhere_ , he thinks as he sits up, rubbing at the sleep dusting his eyes.

“Mario?  Is everything okay?  You’re not injured or anything?”

“No, I’m fine.  I just wanted to speak to you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Mario stammers, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Marco smiles at this, relaxes down into bed as the immediate waves of panic end.  Mario’s fine, he’s okay, he just calling for a chat and not to break Marco’s heart with even more bad news.

“What’s it like out there?”

“It’s hot.  We’re flying to Lille later.  We’re in the airport right now.” There’s a sudden thump and some colourful language chucked at Thomas, before Mario comes back, “that dickhead just threw a shoe at me.”

“A shoe?” Marco bursts out laughing, “why did he do that?”

“Because he’s an attention-whore who can’t deal with other people having friends,” Mario says, indignant, and Marco can _see_ the exact face Mario must be pulling at Thomas right now.  He’d had it aimed at him several times, like when he stole the last pretzel, or the time he gave Mario a blowjob but pulled off right before he came and told him they had to go to training.  He blushes slightly as his cock twitches at the memory of Mario, sweaty and moaning, begging him to just finish him off.  Marco remembers the way he zipped up his coat and left the room with a smirk, remembers the way Mario pounced on him the moment they walked back into his flat after practice.

“Marco?” He hears Mario say with a lilt of a laugh and _god_ Marco forgot how beautiful his voice is when he does that.  “Are you awake or have you fallen asleep on me?”

“I fucking want to.” He says, trying to sound as pissed off as possible.  What he doesn’t account for is the adorable teasing he sets Mario free to do and his resolve lasts all of five seconds as he fails to stop himself from cracking a smile. “You’re a fucking nightmare, you know that?”

Marco can hear the smile in Mario’s voice when he replies, and they fall into natural chatter, only to be interrupted when someone tries to drag Mario into their shenanigans.  They talk right the way up until the team is called to board and Mario hangs up on him with a pledge to message when he arrives and a promise of a video call with the team.

(Mario doesn’t tell him the original reason he called was to break the news that he's agreed to come back, only to decide it should be a surprise once he heard Marco’s adorable sleepy tone.)

The promise of the video call is how Marco finds himself in his kitchen, phone propped up as he tries to stifle a giggle at the way Mario has arranged the team.  They’re sitting formally on the sofas in what must’ve become the designated common room, the sofas a good ten metres away from where Mario has placed his phone so they can all fit in.  When Marco answers the call, he is immediately subjected to an overwhelming wealth of different greetings from overdramatic waving from Thomas which ends up with him almost slapping Toni across the face, to a quiet murmur from Jonas, to not even receiving one from Mesut because he’s too busy engrossed in listening to Sami he hasn’t realised the call has started.

“How are things going?” Marco asks and shouldn’t even be surprised as the team start talking over one another – although he can make out that things are good.  “Ready to beat Slovakia tomorrow?”

The cheers of assent are so deafening Marco is grateful for the forethought of not wearing headphones.

Mario is strangely quiet throughout the whole call, listening as Mats rambles on about how much they miss him, Thomas joking around and generally being his hilariously annoying self, Shkodran and the Julians deafening him with some dreadful singing that Mesut and Sami awaken from their trance to conduct until Basti screams at them to stop.

“Has anyone else got anything _worth saying_ that they’d like to say to Marco?”

“Are you saying my words about how much I miss him are invalid?” Mats protests, causing their captain to give Marco an eye roll that forces him to stifle a laugh.

“They’re valid, but this call has no control,” the captain says, “Mario, anything to say?”

Marco doesn’t miss the way the whole team looks at Mario like they know something Marco doesn’t. 

“Not really,” Mario stammers, “anyone else?”

“We’ll win the cup for you!” Andre shouts from where he’s hidden behind Mario Gomez, a statement which elicits another roar from the team. 

“Thanks guys.” Marco smiles.  _I really wish I didn’t have to rely on you to win trophies for me._

It’s like Mario can read what Marco’s thinking, because he stands up and asks the team to wave goodbye to Marco.  This process lasts another five minutes as Thomas begs the team to perform ‘the song they wrote for him’ (as much as he loves Thomas, Marco’s sure he’d rather die than hear it) but finally Basti uses his captain authority and Marco’s eyes linger on Mario’s smile for a couple of moments longer than what’s probably acceptable, before he presses ‘hang up’ and the disorderly team disappears from view.

They play out of their skin the next day, 2-0 up at half time with another goal for Mario Gomez, and Julian Draxler puts the final nail in the coffin to see them comfortably through.  However, even with the elation for the team Marco is disappointed to see Mario sitting with Andre on the substitutes bench, not used once for the whole game.  It’s a frightening likeness to Brazil, and Marco is worried Mario is going to be consumed in self-doubt about his abilities again.

The game against Italy is a few days later and Marco spends a lot of time texting Mario in the run up, roasting Italy and talking about everything from the food to the weather, everything aside from Mario’s feelings about his own tournament performances.

Mesut puts them a goal up and they’re going through until Jerome commits handball in the Italy box and they score the subsequent penalty.  From the moment 1-1 appears on the score box in the corner of Marco’s television screen, he knows what’s going to happen.  He sits through the rest of the normal time, through extra time, watching as neither team can get a breakthrough, downs another beer when the teams line up on the halfway line for the penalty shootout.

The shootout starts off promisingly when Toni and Insigne both score their penalties, but then Thomas misses; the groan from the pub down the road so loud Marco can hear it above the television.  He slumps down into his seat, already thinking about what to send to Thomas when Italy win, only for Zaza to make the ball somehow disappear… into the crowd.

It spirals into a complete mess from then on.  Most score, Basti misses, but then Darmian misses too, and Marco’s heart palpitates when Jonas steps up to the spot.  Jonas, the shiest member of the team, versus Buffon, one of the best goalkeepers in history. 

Marco suddenly has all the faith in the world.

Jonas puts it straight into the net.

The city around him goes crazy and Marco can see Mario along with the rest of the subs sprinting across the field to reach Jonas, who is standing there in almost confusion.  He can feel the euphoria of his friends, even the ones who missed, through the screen and it’s not the first time he wishes with a painful throb that he was there.  He knows he could’ve scored past Buffon.

Mario doesn’t text him until very late that night.

 **Mario:** everyone put jonas on their shoulders and paraded him through the halls of the hotel

 **Marco:** wtf how did you get him to agree to that

 **Mario:** we didn’t

 **Mario:** toni and thomas picked him up and everyone sort of joined in

 **Mario:** he looked on the verge of a heart attack for a while but then i think he secretly enjoyed it

 **Mario:** then jogi found us

 **Marco:** of course i can just imagine the racket thomas would’ve been making

 **Mario:** he didn’t even yell he just sighed and said ‘don’t injure him’

 **Mario:** thomas didn’t want to stop though

 **Mario:** manu had to convince him to put jonas’ health first

 **Marco:** of course he’d listen to manu

 **Marco:** the man could tell him to throw himself off a cliff and he’d do it

 **Mario:** you’re acting like he wouldn’t do that anyway just to ‘see what happened’

 **Marco:** that’s actually so true

 **Marco:** jokes aside

 **Marco:** how are you feeling?

 **Mario:** i’m good.  i just wished i could’ve been out there helping the team

 **Marco:** me too

 **Mario:** how’s dortmund

 **Marco:** lonely everyone’s either at the euros or in their home country

 **Marco:** auba doesn’t get back for another week :(

 **Mario:** i’ll come see you soon

 **Marco:** not too soon you’ve got another winning goal to score

 **Mario:** i’ve stolen a shirt of yours fyi

 **Marco:** :)

They’re in the semi-finals and Germany is scorching hot with anticipation for the game against France.  Marco receives what seems like 1000 videos from the team during their flight to Marseille, complete with some appropriate anti-France chanting, and briefly considers flying to the city to watch the match live – until his father rings and tells him to watch the game at their house with his sisters instead.

He agrees and when he arrives at his parent’s house he walks in to the familiar smell of goulash cooking on the stove.  His mum greets him with the sad smile that he knows means she wants to discuss how he’s feeling and makes a mental note to avoid ending up alone with her, but the moment is thankfully distracted by Yvonne and Nico arriving and everyone appropriately fawning over the adorable antics of Marco’s nephew.  They sit around the dining table for dinner, Marco with Nico on his lap, chatting about their predictions for the game. 

 **Marco:** win 7-1 again for the laughs

 **Marco:** or even better, 7-0

 **Marco:** either way you’ll all do great

Mario doesn’t reply.  He’s on the bench when the line-up is announced, and the commentators make Marco antsy with their constant talk about Mario Gomez, who has been in exceptional form over the course of this tournament.  France are lined up in the tunnel first and Marco can almost hear the final words of encouragement Jogi will be yelling at the team before Basti leads them out and lines up next to Hugo Lloris.

The first half is pretty bleak, and Marco’s prepared to go and analyse it with his father during half time when suddenly the referee is blowing his whistle and pointing to the penalty spot for a foul so minor Marco missed it.

 _‘Arrogant cunt,’_ he thinks when Griezmann slots it past Manu.

The pundits are furious at half time, slamming the refereeing decision that put the team a goal down.  Marco’s father is also on a rant of his own, only stopping himself from swearing when Yvonne gives him a particularly stern look what with her son on her lap.  He’s barely finished his spiel when the teams come filing back out for the second half and Marco shuts his eyes and wills them to fight for it.

He knows they will when he sees Mario come on for Emre, stating clear Jogi’s attacking intent.  His eyes keep falling back to his best friend as he gives everything he has, but then France break out of nowhere and the cunt Griezmann gets another goal.

They’re 2-0 down and floundering.  They’re chucking everything they have at the opposition but all they ever receive is the frustrated groans at fluffed chances.  With every second that ticks the French crowds get louder, knowing they’re going to reach the final in their home country.  The final whistle seems quiet in comparison.

The camera pans around the German players in an almost mocking glee, interspersing shots of their disappointment with French elation.  Marco’s father switches the television off, Mel is fiddling with her nails, little Nico is crying slightly and Marco stares at the ceiling, trying not to comprehend how crushed his friends must be feeling.

He drives home not long after, the sound of the engine loud in the silent streets.

☆

They’ve been back at Brackel for a couple of weeks when Auba chucks his arm around Marco and asks him to come over for a game of FIFA after training.   He’s still driving Marco around everywhere after he lost his licence, but his test is in a couple of weeks and he couldn’t be more excited to get his freedom back.  Still, he accepts Auba’s offer and goes back to striking free kicks past Roman.

As they leave the training ground they pass a car with blacked out windows.

“Probably a new signing.” Auba remarks.  “Who do you think it could be?”

“Definitely Messi,” Marco jokes, “Or Ronaldo?”

“I’d prefer Messi,” Auba says with a grimace.

They continue in the same vein, suggesting the ridiculous potential players that could be signing for their team at that very moment.  They end up creating a dream eleven of new players, placing themselves alongside Messi and having Manu protected by a backline that includes Fips and Chiellini.  They arrive back at Auba’s house and decide to create the team on FIFA, splitting the players and adding in others of their own choice.

“Seriously though, who do you think it could’ve been?  Have there been any rumours I haven’t heard?” Marco asks as Auba scrolls through his phone.  He sees his friend contemplate for a moment, still scrolling, when he suddenly stops flicking through the tweets and his mouth drops open.

“Get your stuff.  We’re going back to yours, so you can get ready for this.”

“What?  What is it?” Marco says, already standing up and putting his shoes on.  He pulls his phone out when they climb in the car and opens Twitter and there it is, written in black and yellow and Marco has to refresh his feed because he’s sure this isn’t real but the tweet’s still there when he clicks onto Dortmund’s page and it’s real.

_Mario Götze has signed for Borussia Dortmund from Bayern Munich for €26m._

He’s sure Auba is driving at completely normal speeds but it feels so slow, like time has slowed down in contrast to Marco’s racing heart, the news is spinning round in his head and he needs to get home, so he can get changed and go to the flat he knows Mario must now be living in again and he doesn’t know what the fuck is going to happen when he gets there.  He’s thinking too fast and barely remembers to thank Auba when he drops him back at his apartment block, dismissing his offer of giving him a lift to Mario’s flat later, knows the air will do him good as he tries not to overthink every single possibility.

His clothes feel too formal or too casual.  His hands are suddenly inept at styling his hair in the way Mario always used to love.  He’s shaking, and he keeps glancing over at the collage of them framed on the wall, sees Mario in the black and yellow and he can’t believe that it really is going to happen again even when three years ago it seemed like it never would.

 He almost forgets his keys in the hurry to leave the flat and visit Mario.  It’s stupid, he knows he needs to calm down because he should not be in a state of near meltdown over this, but that doesn’t stop him from calling the elevator and then taking the stairs because it’s taken too long to arrive.

He almost collides with him in his attempts to get to the front door.

“I guess you still live here, then?” Mario says by way of greeting and Marco is so close to the edge, his eyes burning and his throat closing up and he gasps for air as Mario giggles fondly at him.  It takes him several minutes to choke out something as small as “yeah,” and almost has to go through the whole damn process again when Mario smiles at him.  “Let’s go upstairs.”

Mario leads him back to his own flat and the déjà vu that hits Marco causes him to stop and stare for a couple of seconds.  Mario goes a few metres ahead before he senses the lack of Marco in his presence and turns back and Marco doesn’t think he imagines the softness in his face.

“Thinking about 2013?” Mario asks, voice suddenly so loud and close and _here_ and Marco wants to kiss him _so fucking badly_ (he should be used to the sensation, but he never is, not with Mario) but he just nods, tries not to stare at Mario’s beautiful face and beautiful lips and beautiful everything as he whispers, “me too.”

Marco fumbles with the keys and he feels like an awkward teenager taking his girlfriend back to his house for sex for the first time – but then Mario giggles at him again and Marco thinks that if he plays his cards right the ‘sex’ part of his act might not be too farfetched.  They get inside, and they go through all of the formalities, making coffee together like the old days and moving into Marco’s living room, sitting on the sofas and kicking their feet up onto the table.  Marco sees Mario smile at the collage above the television, nods slightly when Mario looks at him with the question written silently in his face.  Through the window, Dortmund glows yellow.

Asking him feels like ripping off a plaster.  He could do it straight away with pain or do it gently and awkwardly dodge around the subject matter and wait for Mario to bring it up himself.

 _It’s been too fucking long._   Three years since Mario left and barely three hours since he’s returned but Marco needs to ask him about everything that’s led up to this moment and the sooner Mario starts talking, the sooner Marco can finally kiss him again.

“Why did you come back?”

“They wanted me, and I wanted this.  I wanted to be back with you and play in Westfalen every week and be close to my parents.  You know Bayern wanted me gone and when Dortmund put the offer in I accepted immediately because it seemed like the right thing to do.  I talked extensively with Liverpool and Kloppo but my mind just kept coming back to this, and you, and I knew I wouldn’t have said no to the offer for the world.”

“When did you agree to it?”

“You know that morning when I called you from the airport in Paris?  It was the night before and I wanted to tell you right there but then… I heard your voice and I decided I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It worked.”

“I regret it.”

“Regret what?”

“Leaving for Bayern.  I was young and impressionable, and I made a mistake with deciding to transfer there when I did.  If I’d stayed at Dortmund I have no idea if I’d still be here now, or if I’d have gone there or somewhere else at another time, but in hindsight I know Bayern was not the place for me.”

_“I’m not just talking about the abuse from the fans, but he was so impressionable, I think the lure of Bayern was too much for him to resist and I don’t think he ever really considered that it wouldn’t work out.  I think he’s learnt how harsh reality can be.”_

Marco suddenly hears Kloppo’s voice in his head as they spoke in one of the backrooms of the Signal-Iduna just three months ago.  With everything that has happened in the meantime, it could’ve been four years ago for how it feels, but he knows that his former coach was right. 

“You know it’s going to be tough, right?”

“With the fans?  I know.  I’m expecting it, I’m expecting to receive no reception when I return, to get booed even.  I’d deserve it,” Mario laughs and Marco smiles at the fact he can’t hear a single trace of hurt, “it’s just more motivation for me to prove myself.”

“Now I can celebrate whenever you score and not get weird looks.” Marco deadpans.  “Plus,” he adds, not trying to conceal the wicked smirk spreading across his lips, “I always thought you looked hotter in black and yellow than red.”

It’s a dangerous comment and Marco should feel embarrassed, but then Mario drops his eyelids and purses his lips to make the sultry face he knows used to always drive Marco crazy and _holy shit it definitely still does,_ if the paradoxical feeling of the chill that runs across Marco’s body and the fire of the blood burning in his veins is anything to go by.

He’s not done, though.  There’s still so many things he has to make sure Mario understands before he tests the waters of the feelings he can see are still there.  They’re coming to the boil and soon it’s all going to boil over and Marco is not going to be able to be held responsible for some of the things he wants to do but first they need to _talk._

“Why did you leave me back then?”

“It was my dream.  I told you that when you asked the night I told you I was going.” Marco’s suddenly thrown back to tears and screaming and unspoken words and he’s torn himself up for so long about not saying them and now he’s going to be able to say them all over again for possibly the rest of their lives, but then Mario cuts off his thoughts, “although when you asked me the second time and I could hear the pain in your voice I wasn’t sure if I knew why I wanted to go anymore.”

“Why did you leave me if you knew it hurt me?  I thought you knew I loved you.”

Marco’s heart is going haywire and if Mario says anything else he’s sure it’s going to fail, but he knows the younger one still has something else to say and he knows it’s going to absolutely floor him when he does. 

“I didn’t, although ever since you told me after the game against Georgia I realised you said it in other ways.  But I need you to understand that leaving you was never my dream.  I had to do it because _I was in love with you_ and I had to achieve my dreams before it broke me.  It just wasn’t until I left that I realised Bayern wasn’t my dream.  Well, it was in a way, given I’d dreamed of playing for them since I was a kid because that’s all kids in Memmingen could ever dream of, but it was only once I lost you that I realised that loving you was my dream and I ruined it.”

Marco can’t even speak, so Mario continues.

“That’s the other reason why I came back.  I needed to achieve my dream of loving you.”

Mario has moved closer to him on the sofa.  Outside, the sun is glowing bright and hot and _yellow_ , and shrouding Mario in its colours through the window and Marco realises that Mario’s heart was only dyed red and it’s all washed off now.  His heart is yellow, and it always has been, Marco thinks as he closes the curtain.

Marco sits down right next to him and he can’t help but move a hand around the small of Mario’s back to pull him closer, scans his eyes across the skin of Mario’s face, his flawless eyebrows, his eyes, brown and huge looking up at him, the way he’s biting his lip and Marco can barely choke out,

“You’ve got your dream.”

He leans down and kisses Mario and it’s so familiar, like no time has passed since they last did this.  Mario is firm and muscular against him, hand slotting on Marco’s neck as he swipes his tongue over his lips and Marco can’t help the little groan he lets out at the spike of arousal as Mario slings one leg over him in a way that could not be read as innocent in a million years.

His hands roam over Mario’s skin of their own accord and slide under the shirt Mario is wearing, running over the miles of smooth skin and laughing into Mario’s mouth as the younger one grinds his hips slightly downwards in response.  He can feel that Mario is already hard through his jeans and briefly notices one familiar sensation running through him implying that his body isn’t fighting his attraction off either.  His lips slip down, and he mumbles an, “off,” into Mario’s neck as his hands grapple with the material, almost humiliating himself as he has to bite down to cut off the moan at the milliseconds when his lips are detached from Mario’s skin.  His fingers go to Mario’s nipples and he savours the feeling of Mario’s unconscious thrust against him as he strokes them lightly, teasing Mario in the way he said he hated but Marco knew he loved.

They pull apart and Marco’s eyes finally take in Mario above him, flushed and struggling for breath, watching the way his body moves as he fights to breathe.  Mario seems to be undressing him with his eyes, biting his lip with a seduction that goes straight to Marco’s cock.  Mario’s fingers skim under his shirt and take it clean off, causing a bit of hair to fall into Marco’s eyes.

“This,” Mario growls as he strokes the lock of hair and _fucking hell,_ “I have to make this illegal because it does things to me that shouldn’t be allowed.”

Marco tries to voice something, anything, so he doesn’t look like he’s completely struck dumb at the sight of Mario’s half-naked body and noticeable erection on top of him, but the only thought he can think is _‘fuck’_ and it’s incoherent and absolutely perfect when he breathes it against Mario’s skin.  He trails his hands across the teasing bit of hair below Mario’s belly button, traces it downwards and then back up against its natural direction, swallows the curses Mario kisses into his mouth as his fingers find the button of Mario’s jeans and undoes it, brushing his fingers ever closer to Mario’s hips.

He pushes Mario’s jeans and boxers down in one movement, tracing his thumbs along the inside of Mario’s thighs as the younger one kicks them off.  It hits him as he feels Mario’s cock skim idly across his stomach that Mario’s here and he’s back and he’s not going away again tomorrow, and Marco has to take a deep breath as Mario gazes at him with a shy smile and _how the fuck has Marco managed to make him fall in love with him?_

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Mario mumbles into Marco’s chest and that’s all he needs to say for Marco to strip himself off, moaning as the cool air of the apartment and the heat of Mario’s skin converge on his cock.  “Have you been with anyone since me?”

“No.” Marco moans again.  It’s the truth.  “You?”

Mario shakes his head into the crook of Marco’s neck as their cocks slide together, ripping another groan from both of them as every nerve ending sets on fire with the feeling.  There’s so much Marco wants to do to him and all the time in the world for him to do it but firstly he just wants Mario to feel every drop of love Marco has for him.

“Is your stuff still in the en-suite?” Mario asks.

Marco nods and Mario gets off him and immediately he misses the warmth of the younger man’s body pressed flush against his, but the sound of Mario’s footsteps across the floor and the feeling of the hand resting on Marco’s back is teasing and Marco can’t bring himself to be ashamed at how much he wants him.

Marco knocks off half his shower gels from the shelf as his hands shake to reach for the lube and condoms.  When he re-enters the bedroom, Mario is lying on his side of the bed and Marco realises he won’t have to go chasing his scent ever again because he’ll have him to replace it, and Marco also realises it’s been three years since Mario’s been to his flat and he doesn’t belong anywhere else.

He folds himself over Mario and presses another kiss to his clavicle, biting down on the sensitive spot where he knows it’ll bruise, relishing in the gorgeous noise Mario lets out.  He riles him up and brushes his fingers lightly over Mario’s cock, eliciting another moan, before kissing the inside of his thigh lightly and opening the lube.

He slicks his fingers and chucks the bottle somewhere on the carpet before pressing gently into Mario, allowing the younger man to get used to the sensations before he curls his fingers and smiles at the little gasp.  He can tell that Mario’s done this while they’ve been apart and his cock twitches at the thought of Mario in Munich, trying to hold back his moans as his brother slept in the room next door as he fingered himself.  It twitches again when Marco dares to think Mario might even have moaned _his_ name.

He finds the overly sensitive spot and watches as Mario’s face contorts in pleasure as he moans Marco’s name.  It’s music to his ears and _god_ he’s forgotten how sensual Mario can be when he throws his head back and rolls his hips into Marco’s fingers, fucking himself on them until he’s stretched and ready.  It’s beautiful, Marco thinks, when he puts the condom on himself and lines up against Mario’s spread legs, plants a kiss on Mario’s lips as he slowly pushes in and moves his head to allow Mario better access as he mauls at Marco’s neck.  He knows he’ll be covered in hickeys and that most of the team will know exactly what the deal is, but he doesn’t care because he’s Mario’s and he’s waited so long to have the bruises to prove it litter his skin again.

He thrusts in and out gently, trying to prolong the process for as much time as he can as Mario shifts to line them up better.  He wants to speed up, does a teasingly quick thrust, but the moment he does he feels the threatening tightness in his veins and he has to focus on the shadow of his hands on Mario’s shoulder to prevent himself from coming straight away.  Mario’s mouth meets his again and they make out languidly as Marco moves in and out, Mario’s legs coiled around his hips and then he hits right place and angles himself to make it every single time, watches as Mario falls apart under his hands, gently holds Mario’s cock and strokes him once, twice, before Mario’s head slumps against his chest and he’s coming all over Marco’s hand.  Marco speeds up then and it’s not long before his own orgasm crashes over him and he’s rendered useless, the smell of sex and Mario overwhelming, and the most attractive scent Marco has ever experienced in his entire life.

“I love you.” Mario whispers once they’re cleaned off and in bed, not caring that the sun has barely set.  “I wish I’d told you before, so I’ll tell you all the fucking time.  I’ll never let you forget.”

“I won’t either.  I love you too, Sunny.” His voice cracks on the word.

Suddenly Mario’s dark, dark eyes are struck right back on him and he’s kissing him and it’s not until he pulls away that he realises Mario is _crying_ and Marco’s sure his heart physically melts in his chest.

“God,” Mario chokes out through the tears, “I missed you calling me that.”

☆

 _‘It’s not been easy,’_ Marco thinks as he follows Mario to the upper deck of the open-topped bus, ‘ _but fucking hell has it been worth it.’_

It hasn’t been easy, Mario had an illness which affected him for years, Marco suffered with consistent injuries and they only won one title, the DFB Pokal in 2017 (Mario didn’t play the final and Marco got injured during the match, so it was bittersweet for the both of them) up until now.  It’s June 2019 and Dortmund have ended Bayern’s six-year winning streak of Bundesliga titles.

It’s Marco’s first, and Mario’s sixth title, but when they appear, to the elation of the fans down below who are screaming their names in tandem with Nobby, Marco knows he would relive all the heartbreak again just for this moment.  Mario is next to him, smiling down at his family who are right next to Marco’s in the middle of the crowd, and he squeezes Marco’s hand below the cover of the bus and Marco knows there’s no one he’d rather share this moment with.

They stay for the interviews and Marco, as club captain, raises the trophy up into the Dortmund summer sky.  Auba called them that morning to pass on his congratulations from London and Marco wishes he could be here too, because he was so important for them before he transferred to Arsenal, along with Mats and Ilkay and Kuba and everyone else from the old Dortmund who have contributed to make it what it was now.

But Mario’s next to him, eyes shining as the sunlight catches in them.  The reflection of the trophy casts a glinting shadow over his face and it gives Marco the weirdest sense of courage.

“Sorry.” He whispers.

“Sorry for what?”

“This.”

_Marco kisses him._

_Dortmund doesn’t stop screaming their names for two days._

**Author's Note:**

> Götzeus fics like this aren't written anymore but I just really wanted to write this so thank you for reading! ♡  
> Quite a lot of the characterisations for the German NT were based off of TWS' "Another Plane of Shambles" fic (which is AMAZING by the way, go and read it if you haven't!) so a big shout out to Elise for her inspiration!  
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr - _alexander-arnolds.tumblr.com_ ♡


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